


Physical Risk

by obaewankenope (rexthranduil)



Series: Signalling Theory: Blue Coat [10]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Al-Shalad doesn't deserve this, Any of it, BAMF! Newt, BAMF! Newt Scamander, Blue coat, But neither does Newt, Egypt, Gen, I'll update as regularly as possible but bear with me pls, Newt Scamander is a badass, Newt's Background, Signalling Theory, The Sphinx Affair, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2019-11-06 18:19:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17944742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope
Summary: Newt Scamander is in Egypt. The year is 1922. He has some exploring to do, some friends to make, and some enemies too.





	1. Egypt 1922: The Desert

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this in the works for literal months now and I've had it. I've had it. I'm posting it to try and keep me going because otherwise I might set my laptop (and myself) on fire! Lots of research has gone into this whole thing (too much, my poor brain) but I know it's not gonna be 100% accurate. I've taken some liberties, downright cried about others, but in the end, I've tried not to be offensive with anything. Hopefully this will be a good read for ya'll and I'll stop rambling now. Enjoy!

****Sand, Newt decided, was a horrific thing. It got in his boots far too easily; had somehow found its way into his pocket so the ink bottle Thee had given him as a gift was ruined; and could be found in every crease, seam, and even the _lining_ of his clothing no matter what spells he used. The fact that the sand was scorching hot thanks to the relentless sun and made his eyes sting with every gust of wind that picked it up just made Newt's perception of the desert sand _worse_.

It was only because the sand was part of nature—possessing both history _and_ magic—that prevented Newt from hating it to the point of transmuting it into something more palatable like dirt.

He cursed the porkey that had obviously been poorly made. Having been bound for Cairo, Newt instead found himself slogging up and down seemingly endless sand dunes, unable to apparate on the unsteady ground that he had no geographical map for. Having landed in Thebes first, and then finding a portkey able to take him to Cairo—the only reliable way to travel to the city beside muggle transport—Newt concluded that he had absolutely _rubbish_ look at the moment.

The Sahara, and other deserts like it were difficult places for wizards to travel, often forcing them to rely on muggle means of transportation. Apparating required, more than anything else in Newt’s opinion, firm geography on which to apparate to and from. You could apparate from one side of Paris to the other using only a photograph or memory for reference because it was _very_ _unlikely_ any significant geographical changes would have occurred over such a short period of time. Something which those apparating knew almost instinctively without having to think about it.

Sand however, unlike dirt or stone roads, was ever changing and thus was an unwise substance to apparate on unless it was necessary. And, though Newt was certainly uncomfortable with the trek and the heat, there was no true need for him to apparate.

Yet.

‘ _Knowing my fortune, I’ll probably be set upon by some muggles seeking to plunder more tombs or buried beneath a dune as it suddenly collapses on me,’_ Newt thought amused. He shook his head, sand that had found its way into his hair to gather on his scalp dislodged by the movement.

The headscarf he had bought before heading for his portkey in the relatively new country of Turkey, protected him from the heat from the sun and the very real risk of heatstroke and sunburn, but the material was thicker than he’d have preferred. It had led to him periodically lowering it to allow for air to reach the back of his neck.

And, unfortunately, sand to nestle in his hair.

Unlike muggles, Newt could at least summon all the water he needed and conjure food if required. Conjured food might not taste as good as the real thing, but it provided basic nutrients the body needed. A wizard could live off conjured food for months at a time if they had to.

Not that Newt knew that for certain, of course; he’d only needed to conjure food for a fortnight.

Those traders in Japan hadn’t realised the danger of stealing a cub from the Byakko tigers until it was far too late. The cub had been okay though. Two weeks of conjured food in a locked room because the creatures had decided to stick around the trader’s base, however, had been more than enough for Newt to develop a strong preference for fresh, non-conjured food. Although, watching the pack’s cubs play and learn to use their own unique abilities through the small window of the door had more than made up for the forced eating of conjured food.

Checking his watch, Newt groaned. It wasn't even four o'clock. He pulled the headscarf back up, enjoying the sudden absence of burning heat on his head. Heat that he'd have to ensure for another six hours.

Oh, but he hated the seasons. And the equator. And sand. _Definitely_ _sand_. Or, he greatly _disliked_ it, at any rate.

Drawing his wand, Newt cast a spell that revealed his location on a map of Egypt he had in his breast pocket. According to the spell, he was possibly a full day's journey from Cairo, maybe more. He hoped it wasn’t more.

‘ _Great,’_ he thought, tucking the map back into his breast pocket before slipping his wand back into the holster on his right forearm. He'd foregone wearing his coat for the time being, tired of the sand it seemed to collect even if the cooling charms on it worked splendidly in the heat. Newt had spelled both his waistcoat and shirt the moment he’d realised where he was, so he wasn’t overly concerned about getting heat stroke but there was still always a risk. He’d rolled his sleeves up as well, revealing scarred forearms, his right one adorned by both a long jaggered scar that stood out in stark relief against his tanned skin and his wand-holster.

Normally, Newt preferred to carry his case in his right or left hand—depending on which hand he felt like casting with—but the unstable sand made it imperative that he had both his hands free. Thus, his case was strapped to his back for ease of movement and enabled him to use his arms for balancing as he kind of crab walked up the dunes. Ascending dunes at an angle often worked better and expended less energy than trying to walk up them in a straight line.

With the numerous spells, charms and incantations on his case, Newt was assured that his creatures were all perfectly safe and well in their own habitats that provided them with whatever they required to flourish. The Niffler, wisely, hadn't even bothered trying to escape the case. Not after the first attempt at least, when it'd fallen face first into the sand just after Newt had arrived in the middle of the desert.

Recalling the look on the Niffler’s face made Newt smile. It seemed that both he and the Niffler shared a mutual dislike of sand. A mutual dislike that still didn’t deter Newt from ensuring the creature didn’t steal more shiny trinkets the moment they got to Cairo tomorrow.

He really didn’t need a repeat of Beijing.

After hours of walking the sun had finally mostly vacated its position in the sky. Newt came to a halt and decided to set up camp for the night.

He still had more than half a day's travel—possibly longer if the sand continued to be difficult and treacherous—and Newt knew from experience that it was better to have a good night’s sleep before a difficult trek than to push on just to get a few more miles in. He needed to check on his creatures and his stomach rumbled something awful.

‘ _Camping in the desert it is then,’_ he thought when his stomach let out a rumble loud enough to echo in the steadily dying light.

He drew his wand, flicked it several times, and conjured a simple tent before him that set itself down on the sand silently. The tent wasn’t anything spectacular to look at; a simple tan colour to better blend in with the sand, it was not at all dissimilar to the one-man tents that had been used during the Great War by Newt and his squadmates. Shaking his head at the thought of his past, Newt began undoing the straps of his case attaching it to his back even as he ducked his head under the tent flap.

Outside the temperature had rapidly dropped from its swelteringly high thirty-seven degrees all the way down to just above freezing, leaving Newt desperately aware of the chill in the air. The sheer variation of day and night temperatures in the desert shocked Newt’s system; having grown used to predictably muted British weather after six months spent at his parents recovering from a nasty case of Incendialgia. His mother would have much preferred Newt remain in Britain for a little longer due to the potential for relapse being possible in the first year after recovery but, well, Newt had already given her an extra two months on top of the four it took to regain full movement in his body without collapsing to the ground feeling like he was being burned alive.

Placing his case down on the table within the tent—the space inside magically-enlarged to estimate a small one-bedroomed flat—Newt flicked his wand at the tent flap, satisfied when it sealed itself shut, cutting off the chilly air outside. The floor within the tent was a simple carpet, warm and most certainly not sand, so Newt didn’t waste any time in undoing his shoes and pulling off his socks, leaving them in a heap by the entryway. His overcoat and waistcoat went next—though those he draped over the back of one of the chairs around the table.

Left in his shirt and trousers, Newt aimed his wand in the direction of the little kitchenette opposite the only doors in the tent—bathroom and bedroom respectively—as he crossed the space toward the sofa nestled against one of the tent walls. He dropped down on it, sighing in relief at the give in the cushions, and let his head fall back against the arm of the sofa, closing his eyes and listening to the sound of the kettle on the stove slowing starting to boil.

‘ _I really should get a shower or something,’_ Newt thought, _‘I’m sure there’s sand in places it shouldn’t be.’_

He had to check on his creatures as well.

Just as the kettle began to whistle, cut off by a sharp slash of his wand, Newt hauled himself back up off the sofa, stretching fully like a cat waking from a nap. He felt and heard his back crack in several places, a soft sort of burning sensation making itself known in his lower back.

He frowned.

‘ _Perhaps staying in England for a little longer might not have been such a bad idea after all,’_ he thought, rubbing his lower back as he moved over to the kitchenette to pick up the mug of tea that had prepared itself. If he was going to have a flare up of Incendialgia, then at least he could camp out in the tent and try and counter it rather than be walking up a sand dune in thirty-seven-degree heat.

The idea of lying on the burning hot sand under the unrelenting sun while also experiencing the burning agony of Incendialgia made him shudder.

Cup of tea in hand, he picked his case up from the table and took it over to the sofa, placing it on the ground. The spark of pain in his back, followed by a trickle of dull fire, had Newt gritting his teeth. He needed to take his potions—and the muggle painkillers he’d found unexpectedly worked quite well—before he checked on his creatures before he could rest.

It was at times like this that Newt wished he had someone he could rely on for help.

Thee was good with the creatures though he lacked whatever it was that Newt possessed which allowed him to approach injured creatures to help them. Their mother had never been able to accurately explain just what it was that allowed Newt to do what even she couldn’t, but as far as Newt understood it he could feel with his magic things that other wizards tended to not notice.

The how and why eluded him and so Newt tried not to think on it too much. It made him think back to his time at school when he’d avoided people and conflicts because of how it felt to be around them. That was before Leta…

Newt bit his lip as he descended the stairs into his case. Leta had been both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, he’d learnt to control his ability, and could at least handle people and conflict, but on the other hand… well. She really _had_ ended up breaking his heart.

He still wasn’t sure if it had been intentional or purely accidental, but it still hurt to think about, even years later.

Inside his case, the shed was its usual mess of half-filled feed bowls, dirty clothes, and a truly impressive number of potions and ingredients for creating salves and poultices for treating his creatures. Sleeping peacefully on the only clean surface in the shed, Newt noticed, was the Niffler.

He smiled.

Placing his mug of tea down on the worktop, Newt stroked the Niffler’s head, smile growing at the way the creature made a soft sound and stretched like a cat.

“You really are adorable,” he murmured, continuing to stroke the creature even as the Niffler rolled onto its back and soft of tried to grab his hand in a move very reminiscent of a cat. “Even if you keep stealing my pocket-watch when you think I’m not paying attention.”

Turning away, Newt moved over to the door of the shed, opening the simple latch on it keeping it shut. Beyond the threshold were the dozens of enclosures where his creatures lived. Not that they were ‘his’ really, but he cared for them and saved them from the horrors inflicted upon them by other wizards and the world so, in Newt’s mind, that made them his responsibility.

His duty.

Descending the small set of stairs, Newt’s shoes touched the ground of the magically created space and he felt the entire magical structure shudder at his presence. The shed had been the first magical space he’d created, back in school in fact, and so wasn’t quite as responsive to his presence as the rest of the cases space. Some of it had been created using magic specific to regions of the world British wizards never bothered to travel to or even really knew existed.

Those spaces had taken Newt _weeks_ to create but had been worth every ounce of exhaustion when the creatures he’d rescued had been released in them. Watching a dragon from China, dependent on a specific form of magic practised by only one group of magical beings in the entire world, touch the loose stones around the mountain Newt had created for its home had been… indescribable.

There were some enclosures that were now empty, their inhabitants free once more in the world. The Amaru chicks Newt had found in the Andes chirped at him through the window of their enclosure, pleased to see him again. He gave them a smile as he continued, wanting to check every enclosure and the creatures within them before he slept.

The Amaru enclosure, like many of the others that Newt passed, had its own climate, topography, and feeding system. In some cases, Newt was required to directly feed the creatures—such as the case of the injured Nundu cub he’d rescued in Africa after its mother had been killed by a village trying to protect their livestock from getting eaten. Others were herbivores and Newt had only needed to plant their favoured food sources and make sure the greenhouses were well-stocked with replacement plants in case anything went wrong with the enclosures.

Of the thirty-two enclosures Newt had created and maintained over the years, he tended to only cycle through a dozen or so of them. The remaining twenty contained permanent residents of his case. One of which he seldom visited out of shame and guilt at his failure.

The herd of Catoblepas were happy in their enclosure, thriving even with nineteen of them now living happily, safe in Newt’s care—two up from last year! They were nearly indistinguishable from Wildebeest and, as a result, had often been found mixed in with the Wildebeest herds of Africa. However, with the increasing habit of muggles to shoot wild animals in Africa for ‘sport’, their numbers had declined enough that finding Catoblepas among Wildebeest herds had become increasingly unlikely since the turn of the century. With both poisonous breath and a paralytic gaze—mildly so, nothing at all as deadly as a Basilisk—the Catoblepas was also something of a target of foreign wizards who travelled to Africa for reasons not too dissimilar to their muggle counterparts.

Newt had dealt with enough poachers in Africa that he’d ended up taking a very harsh line with any that he came across. It was… necessary, but still Newt disliked that he had to be so cruel and ruthless, just so he could send a message to those who exploited creatures for their own material gain.

The Cerastes that Newt had found in a smugglers den about a year after he’d started travelling the world—before he’d even earned any sort of nickname in the criminal underworld—stuck its head up from beneath the sand when Newt paused to check on it. For a creature with such a simple method of hiding and hunting, the value of a Cerastes was immense. The skin of the serpent fetched an average of 100 Galleons and its horns more than double that _each_.

He’d tried to release it several times over the years, but every time Sasha would slither back to him and curl around his legs, looking at him with a pathetically adoring expression for a snake. She often enjoyed hissing at him, conversing about anything and everything.

It had prompted Newt to hunt down anyone who could teach him to speak to her, having realised that the magical talent of parseltongue couldn’t, under any circumstances, be something only inherited. That had sent Newt to India for six months, then further east into China, the Himalayan mountains cold enough that Newt had ended up with pneumonia even with warming charms and thick clothing. Dougal hadn’t been at all pleased with Newt.

Neither had Thee or his parents.

But the pneumonia had been more than worthwhile considering that Newt had finally, finally found someone who’d been willing to teach him. Parseltongue, unlike what British wizards—and a fair number of European wizards as well—believed wasn’t something someone could only inherit. Yes, it was a magical language but, as every witch and wizard were magical, any could learn it if they were willing to dedicate themselves to the art of magical languages.

Some magical languages required blood heritage from the creatures that spoke those languages—such was the case with the language of Greek Centaurs which Newt, unfortunately, would never be able to speak. Others, like Parseltongue, required blood magic, a book of phonetics—or, more accurately, _seven_ of them—and very little sleep.

A snake or two helped as well.

Poisoned blood, or, more simply, blood that contained snake venom from a magical snake like a Basilisk or a Cerastes that was exceptionally enthusiastic about helping, had to be ingested during a full moon and expelled by the new moon. Those days had been exceptionally unpleasant for Newt. He’d been achy, sweating, delirious, hallucinating, and he was certain he’d disturbed some of the magical elders of the village with his displays of wandless magic—something about too many colours in his aura to understand—but waking up to Sasha hovering over his face, hissing at him in concern, her words a garbled mess that New still, somehow, understood had made it all worthwhile.

The sheer, unadulterated joy in Sasha’s serpentine voice, and the way she’d curled up on his chest, a source of warmth and magical comfort, still made Newt smile so many years on.

“ _Hello Sasha,”_ he hissed out, tapping lightly on the glass of her enclosure, the clear material disappearing and allowing the Cerastes to slither out and up Newt’s arm.

“ _You have been out in the sun too much,”_ Sasha hissed, a note of reprimand in her voice as she rested her head on Newt’s shoulder. One of her horns gently bumped against the side of Newt’s head; Sasha’s way of offering comfort.

Newt sighed. _“I know,”_ he said, reaching out to stroke her scales with his other hand. _“It can’t be helped but I don’t exactly enjoy it.”_

Sasha gave him an unimpressed look which, Newt admitted, was impressive for a snake that didn’t have eyebrows or any ability to express emotion visually.

“ _You should find other humans soon,”_ she warned, something in her voice that sounded a lot like worry. _“Something is not right in this place.”_

“ _In the desert?”_

Sasha nodded.

Newt frowned. _“It could be the magic of the desert?”_ He hazarded, moving away from her enclosure to sit down on one of the many improvised seats he’d made over the years. This one happened to be an old bucket. _“I think it may have affected the Portkey I took.”_

“ _No.”_ Sasha shook her head. _“This is something else. Not the desert magic. It feels…”_ she trailed off, looking away from Newt to stare around them at the other enclosures. _“It feels evil.”_

One of the things that Cerastes were capable of was detecting evil. It was a little-known ability given that few wizards in Europe could converse with snakes. Newt had come to trust Sasha’s word when she spoke of an evil presence; she had been instrumental in saving his life in 1920 from a dark wizard still bitter from the outcome of the Great War.

“ _Do you know what kind of evil?”_ Newt asked, frowning when Sasha shook her head. _“I’ll be on my guard then until I get to Cairo.”_

“ _How long will it take you?”_ she asked, slithering along Newt’s shoulders to wrap around his neck like a scarf. _“I don’t want you outside at night.”_

“ _My tent is warded.”_

Sasha hissed. _“Some evils eat wards.”_

‘ _Fair point,’_ Newt thought, stroking Sasha’s head when she nuzzled his cheek. _“I’ve got the wards linked to the magic of the desert,”_ he pointed out, _“whatever it is would have to eat the entire magic of the desert before it could get to me.”_

Sasha shook her head. _“Only if you stay inside the tent,”_ she said, looking at Newt meaningfully. _“I want to sleep with you tonight.”_

Newt blinked. _“You’re that worried about this?”_

Sasha nodded. _“Yes.”_

“ _Okay then,”_ he said, standing. _“But you’ll have to wait for me to finish my rounds,”_ he added, moving over to her enclosure.

“ _No.”_

Sasha’s whole body tensed, her tail around Newt’s arm coiling tighter.

“ _Sasha—”_

“ _No.”_

Newt sighed. _“Fine.”_

It seemed he’d be having company on his round.

‘ _Oh, I hope the Ratatoskr don’t panic when they see her,’_ he thought, heading towards the Hippocampus enclosure to look in on Sally, the latest addition to the herd. _‘I do not want to have my eardrums blown out again.’_

The Ratatoskr didn’t panic when they lay their eyes on Sasha. Instead they chittered excitedly at the sight of her, leaving Newt very confused and Sasha amused. He made a mental note to do some more research on Ratatoskr the next time he’s in Norway or Sweden. A rodent should not be so happy to see a serpent, no matter the circumstances.

“ _I like them,”_ Sasha commented after the last of the permanent residents are checked on. _“They were friendly.”_

It took Newt a moment to realise who she was talking about. _“You can’t eat them,”_ he said. _“They have no other home but this one and I won’t let you hurt them, Sasha.”_

Sasha let out a hissing laugh. _“No! I like them because they are friendly, not because I want to eat them,”_ she pressed, her head resting atop Newt’s own. _“They have interesting stories.”_

Newt paused, halfway up the stairs to the shed. _“Stories?”_

Sasha hummed. _“Yes. Very interesting stories. I’d like to hear more, I think.”_

‘ _Interesting,’_ he thought, continuing up the stairs into the shed.

The Niffler was still asleep in the same spot it’d been when Newt had first come down into the case nearly an hour ago. Newt smiled at the sight.

“ _That is a strange creature,”_ Sasha hissed, raising her head from atop Newt’s to peer closer at the Niffler. _“It smells of metal.”_

Newt sighed.

“ _My silver quill, I imagine.”_

Leaving the shed, Newt clambered out of the case, balancing precariously when Sasha’s head bolted out towards the entrance of the tent. _“Sasha!”_

“ _There is something out there! I know it!”_

“ _Do you want me to go outside and—”_ Newt began only for Sasha to cut him off with a panicked hiss.

“ _No! No! Don’t you dare! I won’t let you!”_

“ _Okay then,”_ Newt said soothingly, _“I won’t go out there.”_

Although Newt wasn’t at all comfortable with the idea of something evil nearby, he couldn’t argue with Sasha about this since, as he’d pointed out, he was safe inside the tent and thus shouldn’t put himself or his creatures at risk.

“ _No.”_ Sasha hissed in agreement. _“You will sleep instead.”_

Sleep while something outside probably wanted to kill him. Unlikely.

Newt shook his head. _“I need to shower first Sasha,”_ he said, turning and making his way toward the bathroom door.

“ _Ugh.”_ Sasha sniffed. _“I will wait in your room then,”_ she declared, slithering down Newt’s body and dropping to the floor with a quiet thump. Without waiting for Newt’s agreement, she pushed the door of his bedroom open and disappeared into the room.

Newt raised an eyebrow. _“Okay then.”_

In the bathroom, the shower was already on, emitting a gentle warm spray that Newt couldn't wait to crawl under. The sound of the water hitting the side of the bathtub the shower head hung over, blotted out any ambient noise and so Newt didn't hear the wind outside, slowly growing into a turbulent fury.

And it was for that reason that he also didn't hear the whispers on the wind that, for generations of desert living folk, were whispers best not listened to. They were the whispers of death promised by bloody sands and sharp claws.

In his tent, safe and sound from any danger outside, Newt showered off the sand and grit of the day before heading to bed, a snake for a companion to guard him throughout the night.


	2. The Desert: Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things whisper in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was planning on uploading this tomorrow but I'm an impatient noodle so eh. Enjoy!

Waking up with a snake curled around your arm was, Newt reflected blurrily, about as unusual a way to wake up as it was to not be alarmed in the slightest. Knowing from prior experience not to try and pull his arm free, Newt hauled himself out of bed with his other, snake-free arm.

There was a certain stuffiness to the air inside the tent, revealing that the heat from outside was so great that the temperature charms were struggling to cope. Unlike the time he'd gone to Antarctica and had remained nice and toasty warm despite the biting cold, most magical tents tended to struggle in extreme heat; something about the nature of the temperature charm having difficulty reducing heat while still maintaining a suitable airflow. However, Newt was aware that this problem tended to be most common in European-made magical tents and he was sorely tempted to invest in buying a new tent from the first merchant he came across selling them in Cairo.

Sasha slowly woke from her own comfortable slumber—apparently having succumbed to tiredness despite her claim to ‘guard’ Newt—and slithered off his arm back toward the case laboriously. One of the things about Sasha that Newt found both amusing and strangely humanising, was the fact that she clearly was  _ not _ a morning-snake. He clicked the fingers of his free hand as he sipped at a hot mug of strong chai tea, releasing the clasps of the suitcase so that Sasha could disappear within it without pause.

He'd go down himself after breakfast—which was on the stove, a lovely aroma of bacon and eggs making his stomach rumble—to check up on everyone. Moving over to the entrance of the tent, Newt pulled the flap open, and was hit full in the face by a strong, warm gust of wind, sand and grit carried into the tent by it. He wasn't worried about that though; the tents spells were already bursting into life to remove and expel whatever sand managed to get inside.

The temperature inside the tent increased a little but there was a sudden freshness to the air—warm as it was—that alleviated the mugginess and made the tent more bearable to be in. He'd stick around for another hour—it was barely past dawn—before heading out, only this time he'd pause for noon as well. If he made good time Newt figured he'd reach Cairo just before sunset. Which, considering what Sasha had felt the night before, was a blessing.

_ ‘Something feels wrong in these parts,’ _ he thought, sitting down at the small table as the pan with the eggs and bacon deposited its contents on the plate in front of him.

“And somehow, I feel like it's far too interested in me for my comfort.”

 

* * *

 

_ ‘Well,’ _ Newt thought,  _ ‘at least I'm not boiling to death right now.’ _

Night had fallen two hours ago, and Newt still had an hour to go before he reached the outskirts of Cairo, though there was a soft glow off in the distance that hinted at the city's existence. Courtesy of Dougal and the Niffler deciding it was a grand idea to let loose the pixies from their enclosure—and the ensuing madness said pixies caused—Newt had lost precious time to wrangling his case into some semblance of order.

“I'm just freezing to death instead,” he muttered, drawing his coat around him as tightly as he could even as he continued his trek along the dunes.

There was a certain beauty to the desert at night; an ethereal quality that rendered most complaints and problems mute in the face of unending starlight and moonlight spilling over the dunes like slow-moving waves of a sandy sea. Even with how cold it was, Newt couldn't help but appreciate that abstract magnificence.

Sasha hadn't had the chance to escape the case with Newt when he'd wrangled control back from the Niffler—her habitat had been hit by the pixies and she'd been ever so distressed and focused on it—which meant Newt was alone in the desert surrounded by a whole lot of nothing.

And yet there was a sound on the breeze that had the hairs on his neck raising in warning. Head raising, as though he were scenting the air when he was really sending out magical feelers, Newt waited for a blip on his magical radar.

The sensation of creeping ice made him hiss and draw his magic back to his core so suddenly and viciously that he stumbled, going down on to one knee and heaving out a ragged breath. His head snapped up at the loud screech that echoed around him, going for miles in the empty desert, and he scrambled back to his feet. He broke into a run.

His wand was in his hand as he ran down the dune, stubbornly refusing to trip and go arse-over-tit as he focused on the lights in the distance. He had no clue how far away he was or if those lights were the main section of Cairo or something else entirely but, as this point, Newt found he didn't much care.

Whatever was following him was catching up  _ fast _ .

Breaking out into a run, Newt didn’t hesitate as he cast a featherlight charm on his case, tapping it over his shoulder with his wand. He considered throwing a spell over his shoulder at whatever it was chasing him, but another glance over his shoulder revealed it would be a wasted spell. The creature was far enough away that any spell would be easily dodged by even the slowest creature.

Cairo was still too far out for Newt to apparate into the city but, maybe… maybe he could make it to the outskirts? Maybe…

A sudden, ear-splitting screech right behind him had Newt diving forward down a dune just in time to avoid the creature barrelling into him. How had it moved so fast? It had been at least thirty feet behind him only seconds ago!

A sharp sting in his side made Newt hiss as he scrambled to his knees at the base of the dune, the creature in front of him, a collection of jaggered lines and too large limbs for something so fast. Even as he darted across the sand, wand gripped tightly in his hand as he threw jinxes and hexes towards the creature, Newt couldn’t help but catalogue its appearance. It reminded him of a werewolf, one transformed in a manner more common to a Wendigo; an observation that had Newt pushing himself to run faster.

He couldn’t apparate the usual way, turning on his heel like was commonly done by most European wizards. The time it would take him to pause and turn would allow the creature to attack him again—which it would judging by how fast it moved—so Newt gritted his teeth and pushed himself to apparate mid-run, forcing more of his magic into the teleportation. He could only pray he didn’t bugger up so bad that he splinched himself or apparated himself  _ into _ the sand.

_ ‘Please don’t get splinched, please don’t get splinched.’ _

Another screech behind him had Newt letting out a surprised cry of pained surprise from claws or talons or nails slicing into the back of his right thigh a split-second before he apparated. From the unstable sand he’d been running across, Newt collapsed in a heap onto harder, more packed sand that had the unmistakable feel of pebble and stone in it. Hand gripping his wand with a trembling grip, Newt rolled onto his side to peer around at his surroundings.

A pyramid stood beside him, the stones that made it impossibly large to Newt from his position on the ground. Magic shimmered from it in a hazy light mixing with the muggle-created light surrounding the national monument.

Newt smiled.

_ ‘I didn’t splinch myself,’ _ he thought, somewhat giddy. “Sweet Merlin, I’m in one piece.”

Cairo wasn’t far from the Giza Plateau, an easy enough distance for Newt to travel now that he had some real distance between himself and whatever attacked him. But Newt had no doubt that the creature would catch up eventually and although he wasn’t a fan of leading creatures into populated areas, the pain in his leg and side was growing and there was something evil about the creature.

Although Theseus often doubted his brother’s common sense and self-preservation instinct, Newt knew and understood far better than most that evil things that were truly evil couldn’t be saved or rescued. Newt protected creatures that were  _ thought _ to be evil but weren’t, not full-blown, easily-recognisable-as-evil creatures and beings like the thing that attacked him.

“Aurors, I’ll need to alert Cairo’s aurors,” he groaned, clambering to his feet, most of his weight on his left leg. He pointed his wand at his leg, shifting unsteadily and almost jabbing the wound on the back of his right thigh with his hand. “ _ Sanandum Vulnus _ .”

He frowned suddenly. The tingling sensation that accompanied that healing spell was absent as was the feeling of healing skin that Newt was particularly sensitive to.

“That’s not good.”

A screech sounded off in the distance, signalling the creature was still chasing him. Not good at all.

_‘I’m going to need to find a healer, fast,’_ Newt thought, blinking beads of sweat out of his eyes, the sting of the salt in his sweat making his eyes burn slightly. He had no idea what was on that creature’s claws or in his wounds now and if _Sanandum_ _Vulnus_ didn’t work, that meant Newt needed to find someone adept at treating curse wounds.

_ ‘Another one to add to the list.’ _ The scratch on his back from a werewolf he’d come across in Russia four years ago still tingled every full moon and it was only because Newt had befriended the locals who knew the werewolf in his human form that Newt survived. A lot of the research on werewolves noted them to be mindless, violent beasts, but Newt had found that specific werewolf rarely directed his violence towards his village—possibly due to familial bonds which impacted on the werewolf’s behaviour even when he was transformed.

The outskirts of Cairo grew ever closer as Newt limped across the Plateau, mindful of not putting too much pressure on his injured leg even as he tried to move quickly. A screech, closer than the last, had him moving faster, stumbling over the sand and stones. Unable to turn on his heel without risking overbalancing, Newt again forced himself to apparate while still moving forward; he felt more secure this time on stable ground and focused on the spot between two homes or closed businesses that lead into Cairo.

Having never been to Cairo, Newt didn’t know of any healers in the area that he could call on, and as far as he knew, the hospital was located near to the heart of the city. His knowledge of Cairo’s sprawling city streets made apparating to it impossible and knocking on someone’s door just seemed like the wrong thing to do. Doubly so with whatever was chasing him on his tail.

_ ‘I need to figure something out.’ _ The only real option Newt had at this point was drawing the attention of any aurors in the area. They may not be able to handle the creature, but they could at least help Newt out with his injury—which was growing more and more painful with every laboured breath.  _ ‘What did Thee always say would get an aurors attention no matter what?’ _

An explosion.

Well, that one was out, Newt frowned. He couldn’t risk civilians—magical and muggle alike—with that thing following him. And he was certain it was still following him even through the winding streets of Cairo.

A patronus.

Of course!

Newt’s patronus was distinctive enough that he had no doubt any nearby aurors would respond to it. A kelpie, even as a patronus, got people’s attention, especially aurors who were trained to recognise patroni as requests for assistance.

The sound of several people running roused Newt from where he leant against a wall he hadn’t recalled stopping against. His case was digging into his back even though it was light enough to barely even register.

Absently, Newt noted that there were wards on the buildings around him, strong ones he should have noticed before but didn't. It was strange, and his mind latched on to the thought even as he heard someone call out in a hushed voice to him.

Newt's magic had always been very sensitive, so much so that he would have minor fits as a child if his father brought anything with a particularly strong magical presence home from work. His mother had banned his father after the fourth time he'd fitted and broke the second floor of their home.

_ 'I was… Six, I think,' _ he thought, sliding down the side of the wall, dark spots in his eyes that he had to force open again.

Someone was speaking to him, asking him questions in Arabic at a speed Newt had no hope of following. He tried to open his mouth to tell them, but it was like he lacked the energy to do so, a sort of paralysing lethargy preventing him from doing anything. Kind of like the aftermath of mother's Christmas dinner and too much sherry in the Christmas Pudding.

"He's English." The voice was accented, blunt, and still very quiet. It was almost as though no one wished to speak any louder than a quiet whisper.

Newt couldn't help but wonder, sarcastically, whatever gave that fact away: his papers perhaps?

"And he's rude."

_ 'Not rude,' _ Newt thought, a last-ditch effort to remain conscious even as he failed to do so.  _ 'Just tired.' _

The last thing Newt heard was that same voice from whatever auror—he hoped it was an auror—issuing an order, voice tight with urgency: "we need the Priests. Quickly."

Then Newt knew no more.


	3. Auror x3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faisal Hashem didn't deserve this, he knew he didn't. He was a good man, a good magician, and an honest auror. Unfortunately, life sucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More OCs! *evil laughter*

Faisal Hashem didn't deserve this, he knew he didn't. He was a good man, a good magician, and an honest auror. He'd only ended up on the night shift because his cousin had called in a favour, so he could go off to Thebes with his new wife and enjoy their honeymoon. Absurd!

And now? Now he had an unconscious Englishman who could broadcast his thoughts exceptionally loudly to anyone who was able to hear with two nasty wounds that were blackening around the edges.

He was also pretty sure he saw bone in the one on the Englishman's side.

Faisal crossed himself, murmuring a protection chant as he and the other three aurors—one of them in training for Mahat's sake—carried the unconscious Englishman further into the city towards the temple. All of them had their wands out, and protection amulets out above their clothing to ward off the evil that was out there.

Whatever the Priests could do for the man, Faisal hoped it would save him. They'd lost enough to the evil out in the desert. Another loss would surely be too much.

Alexandria was pushing for oversight in the city, and the only reason they hadn't won yet was because Faisal and the rest of the aurors had been on patrol every night in groups of three or more. Their boss hadn't stopped working and was determined to deny the creature more victims.

Unfortunately, his boss hadn't counted on a stupid foreigner wandering the desert.

Faisal's lips twisted. If the Englishman survived, he might wish he hadn't when Al-Shalad was finished with him.

"Abdoul, call for Hanif and tell him we have another attack victim," Faisal ordered, nodding at the trainee auror who nodded. "Then contact the chief and tell him. He'll want to be here for if Hanif can save this one."

"Yes sir."

"Shuja, Khuram, help me get him on the nearest bed. The Priests will take over quick, but I need some basic spells done." Faisal doubted that the tests would tell them anything new, especially considering how obvious it was that the Englishman had been attacked by the same evil creature they were trying to kill, but it was procedure.

Hanif, head Priest at the temple of healing arrived in a sudden, rushed flurry, four other healers behind him, each one laden down with supplies.

"He has been attacked?" Hanif questioned, glancing up at Faisal as he held his hands over the Englishman's prone form. Faisal nodded. "It is as I expected then."

Two of the other healers came forward and began to remove the layers of clothing the Englishman wore. In the bright light of the temple halls, Faisal suddenly noticed that the Englishman's outfit was an unusual colour.

Blue.

_ Bright _ blue.

Like a sapphire.

"He is strong," Hanif's voice snapped Faisal from his thoughts, dragging his attention to the Priest. "The wound on his side is deep enough to kill, but he has not died."

"There is a trace of a spell he may have performed Priest Hanif," Khuram said, drawing attention from those present. "I don't know what but perhaps that helped him?"

"Hmm—" Hanif tilted his head "—it might have, yes. But now we must try to cleanse the wounds and heal him as best we can. But it will be his magic that saves him, if it is the will of the gods."

"We will leave you to your work," Faisal declared. "Chief Al-Shalad will be here soon enough, I imagine he will want a report as soon as possible about the Englishman."

Hanif nodded, attention entirely on his patient. One of the other healers held out a bundle of herbs, Faisal had no hope of identifying. "Of course, of course."

Jerking his head in the direction of the exit, Faisal and the other two aurors followed him outside of the healing halls toward the entrance they had barrelled through only moments before.

Abdoul met them there.

"The Chief will be here soon," he said without preamble. "He's had to call the British Ministry."

Faisal sighed. "Great."

Al-Shalad was bound to have been in a bad mood because of another attack, but after dealing with the obnoxious English? Faisal really did hate his cousin. He really, really did.

"While we wait for the Chief, go through the foreigner’s belongings," Faisal ordered, "maybe there's something in his belongings that will explain why he was in the desert in the middle of the night."

Shuja made a sound.

Faisal looked at him. "What is it?"

"The case the foreigner had," Shuja began, pausing to scratch his chin. "It's—there are a lot of wards on it."

Faisal raised an eyebrow. "And that's a problem because…"

"We can't open it."

"Excuse me?"

Shuja looked, for all Baset's lives, like he wished it was Khuram telling Faisal this. Unfortunately for Shuja, he'd been the one who'd guessed wrongly about the case and, by the rule of a senior auror, was given the task of sharing undesired news.

"The wards won't let us open it, well," Shuja hurried to explain, "they will, but the second layer refuses to let us see the rest of what's inside beyond his uh—his—" Shuja blushed "—his clothing."

Faisal closed his eyes. He breathed.

"The Boss is going to kill us, isn't he?" Khuram sighed.

"Possibly." A pause. “Probably.”

"I should have joined the law department," Faisal muttered, opening his eyes to look down at the case Shuja held by the handle. "My mother told me you know? That being an auror wouldn't be good for my health." He sighed. "She was right."

 

* * *

 

By the time Al-Shalad arrived at the temple, the foreigner seemed to be well enough to be questioned. Hanif and his fellow healer-priests had done a remarkable job with the foreigner, stabilising him and treating wounds that had bled so severely, Faisal want sure how the foreigner's blue coat was still blue.

Perhaps he had spelled it to be resistant to blood?

_ 'It would probably have been a good idea if he's who I think he is,' _ he thought, standing to attention as Al-Shalad came charging through the doors straight toward him.  _ 'Oh, he looks unhappy.' _

"Where is he?" Although he looked murderous and his voice was owned, Al-Shalad sounded surprisingly calm considering he'd spent the last two hours or so dealing with a foreign ministry full of pompous windbags.

Faisal pointed to his right. "Private room, sir."

Al-Shalad continued charging along, leaving Faisal to hurry after him in as dignified a manner as possible. "He's guarded."

It was a mark of respect toward Faisal that his chief didn't phrase his words as a question, trusting that his aurors were capable of at least keeping their injured foreigner in one place.

Faisal grimaced.  _ 'If it really is Blue Coat though, I don't know if we're up to that.' _

Khuram and Sheja were stood on either side of the door to the foreigner's room, Abdoul peeked his head through the door when Khuram quietly tapped on it. All three jumped to attention at the sight of their chief and Faisal.

"Is he conscious?" Al-Shalad asked without preamble, fixing his heavy, intense stare on the three aurors.

Khuram looked at Abdoul who grimaced, shaking his head. "No sir. He's been in and out for the past half hour."

Al-Shalad frowned.

"He was alert and aware ten minutes ago," Faisal said, surprised and confused. The foreigner had been perfectly well when Faisal left the room to meet the chief, how had he just so suddenly lost consciousness.

"The wounds he received," the chief said, drawing Faisal's focus. "Pries Hanif sent a message to me confirming they were made by the same creature that has been killing in the city."

Khuram paled, Shuja cursed, and Abdoul's grimace grew a fearful edge to it. Faisal, for his part, closed his eyes tightly and breathed.

"That means he's poisoned and will die anyway, unless the creature is killed," he said quietly, heavily. "If it can be killed."

Al-Shalad made a noise and Faisal opened his eyes to look at his chief.

"They can be killed." A dark, inexplicable look flickered across the chief's face, replaced by a tired sort of calm that seemed out of place on the face of someone who was usually cheerful and pleasant or angry at everything from his bed to his favourite quill.

"Sir?"

Al-Shalad shook his head. "I need him awake now, before the poison settles any deeper in him and makes waking him impossible."

Faisal nodded. "I'll go get a healer to wa—”

"No."

Al-Shalad stared at the door Khuram and Sheja guarded. "No," he repeated, "I'll wake him. I know how."

"How—” Faisal cut himself off, not verbalising the question that had an obvious answer to it.

He watched, instead, in a tense silence as the chief entered the foreigner's room, the door closing with a quiet snap behind him.

"Abdoul, head back to the palace and fill in the relief aurors, make sure we have continued security outside this room; healer and auror access only."

Abdoul disappeared down the corridor, heading for the exit of the temple with a quiet "yes sir" even as Faisal continued speaking.

"You two will get a relief when next shift starts in—" he checked his pocket watch "—two hours. If the chief doesn't leave before you're relieved, send me a message and I'll cover his work until he's done."

Faisal ran a hand through his hair, messing it up further. "I need to speak to Hanif, inform him of everything before I head back to the palace."

Khuram and Sheja both nodded at him.

"Try and get some rest sir," Khuram said to him as Faisal turned away from them. "We can't have you falling asleep when we’re walking the streets."

Faisal cracked a smile. "I'll try and aim for something more achievable, I think." His smile grew. "Falling in the Nile is more likely than sleeping for me right now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments sustain me (as always)


	4. Unconsciousness only lasts so long (unfortunately)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had the strangest sensation he was being watched...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I'm posting this early because I can and also because I'm tired and it seems like a good idea!

Newt had the strangest sensation that he was being watched. It was a strange feeling, mixing in with the vague weightlessness of a black void of absence he floated within.

_ 'Is it absence if I'm in it?' _ he wondered.  _ 'I don't think it is.’ _

Though, perhaps it was. He didn’t know. Not really. All that Newt knew was that it was strange, unexpected, and not at all unlike being engulfed in water.

Sort of like that time with Karen the Kelpie in Scotland.

“Scamander.”

The gruff voice, sort of distant and wobbly as though Newt heard it through water was definitely  _ not _ like that time in Scotland, however.

“Newton Scamander. Wake up.”

He was asleep? That… that actually explained a lot.

The black void was because his eyes were closed. The weightlessness a leftover sensation stemming from deep sleep or unconsciousness and relaxed muscles free of tension.

With awareness of that, the false-absence filled with sensations, thoughts, and, most importantly of all,  _ memories _ .

“You  _ need _ to open your eyes, Scamander. Before the poison steals your mind from you.”

Poison? What poison?

He’d been attacked by a creature—no, a monster. A true monster. The kind that couldn’t be mistaken for anything else but evil and horrid and  _ wrong _ . The creatures Newt knew, had seen, saved, fought for, and mourned were called monsters but they were nothing of the sort: not compared to the thing that attacked him.

_ ‘Does it secrete poison to immobilise its prey?’ _ he wondered, forcing every grain of his being on opening his eyes.  _ ‘Maybe it’s used as a deterrent, or for fighting with others of its kind—if there are others like it. I hope not.’ _

“Scamander, this is important! If you do not wake and  _ remain _ awake, you will not wake again.”

The words were urgent, pressured with desperation enough to cause Newt to make a quiet sound of acknowledgement. The most he could manage.

It was like his body just didn’t want to cooperate.

_ ‘Is that what this poison does? Paralyses you?’ _ A second sound, this time of discontent, left Newt’s lips. Lip he could distantly feel.  _ ‘How long have I been like this?’ _

“A few hours, you’ve been unconscious for a few hours, Scamander.” The voice was calmer but still strongly insistent that Newt open his eyes. It was like there was a force, pushing at Newt.

He disliked it intensely.

“I apologise for being forceful, but it is necessary, Scamander. You  _ need _ to wake. You need to wake  _ now _ .”

The sight that met Newt’s eyes when they sluggishly opened was that of a man who wouldn’t have been out of place ordering an army to war. It was the way he gazed at Newt, an intensity to his gaze that held the weight of decades worth of history; of pain and loss.

It was also a gaze that had Newt instinctively grasping for his wand with trembling hands before he even realised it.

“Steady, Scamander,” the man—wizard—said, resting a hand on Newt’s arm. “I am not your enemy.”

_ ‘No, you’re just someone who makes me want to hex you out of my personal space,’ _ Newt thought bitingly, the sense of someone listening to his thoughts fading rapidly as his occlumency shields kicked back in fully. It took a strong legilimens to read even Newt’s unguarded thoughts, as chaotic as they were.

“Who—who are you?” he managed to get out, shifting underneath the hand on his arm, feeling strength returning to his body from the tired lethargy induced by whatever that evil thing infected him with.

“I am Mosad Al-Shalad, Chief Auror and Head of the Law Office of the Egyptian Ministry,” Al-Shalad answered, the hand on Newt’s arm shifting to help the magizoologist shift into a semi-upright position. “Three of my men responded to your patronus in time to bring you here, to the Temple for treatment.”

A vague memory of voices close by and hands on him drifted up from the depths of Newt’s mind.

“I’m thankful for their actions,” Newt said, leaning back against a pillow and giving Al-Shalad a searching look. “They could have been harmed by that creature.”

Al-Shalad’s face darkened at the mention of what had attacked Newt, his brows furrowing for a moment in clear anger before smoothing out. “The beast has been a problem lately,” he said, not really offering up any information for Newt to use to figure out what the creature was.

“Do you know what it is?”

Getting the auror talking about the creature would, Newt knew, provide him with information that every instinct screamed that he needed. But, it appeared that Al-Shalad had questions of his own that demanded answers.

“I may, but tell me,” Al-Shalad gave Newt a sharp, penetrating look, “why were you found in the outskirts of Cairo? Not far from the Great Pyramids?” There was a chair near the bed Newt lay in and Al-Shalad sat back into it, casual as could be even as he stared at Newt with an unblinking gaze. “It is an unusual place to be so late at night, Mister Scamander.”

Newt stared at Al-Shalad, thinking. The auror had no intention of answering Newt’s questions before Newt had answered his. He wondered if the implication that he’d never wake again from before was a farce.

_ ‘No,’ _ he thought,  _ ‘not with the way I felt—feel, and certainly not with the urgency in this auror’s voice. No, it wasn’t a lie.’ _

“I took a portkey from England to Egypt, I had intended to arrive in Cairo two days ago… however, I ended up in Thebes…I—I’m not sure how.” Newt explained, glancing down and away from Al-Shalad, his body trembling slightly from a sudden flash of exhaustion. His brow furrowed at the sensation; he didn’t understand where the sensation came from or what it meant.

“Thebes is a long way from Cairo,” Al-Shalad commented.

Newt nodded.

“Was the portkey legal?”

Newt’s eyes snapped to Al-Shalad, reading the falsely-casual expression on the man’s face. “As—as far as I know.”

He hadn’t used a non-Ministry-approved portkey for over a month; an unusually long period of time for Newt with his work. Sometimes the legal portkeys were not to the standards Newt’s work required.

If he’d used that portkey he’d received from a Ministry employee last year, Newt knew that his travel with the young Nundu cub would have been far more explosive than it had been—and he’d still had to replace his waistcoat by the end of it all.

Al-Shalad nodded. “Do you remember the registration number for the portkey?”

“I have it written down.” Newt glanced around the room, frowning. “Wh—where’s my case?”

“Your case?”

“It—I—” Newt stared at Al-Shalad, meeting his gaze without flinching. “The details are in my case.”

Al-Shalad waves a hand. “It is being checked.”

“Checked?” Newt didn’t look away from the Egyptian auror, knowing that if he did he’d be confirming whatever suspicions Al-Shalad had. Not that the auror truly knew what was in Newt’s case; he had more than enough faith in his own charms to trust anyone other than himself would only see a generic suitcase with the standard contents any traveller took with them on their journeys. “Why?”

“You are a foreign wizard who has appeared in my city, attacked by something and holding on to your case with such a grip that my men had to pry it out of your hands,” Al-Shalad answered, giving Newt a challenging look. “Why would it not be checked, considering?”

Newt fell silent. He couldn’t argue with Al-Shalad about that; it was precisely what his brother would have done. “The details should be in a small journal, written in pencil,” he said, looking away from Al-Shalad to give the room a more comprehensive search. “It’s—it’s easier to use muggle materials when travelling.”

Al-Shalad hummed. “I would imagine it would be.” He shifted in the chair, drawing Newt’s gaze before it flittered away to continue taking in the room. “The creature that attacked you, how did you escape it?”

Newt’s gaze stilled. His eyes were fixed on a random spot on the wall opposite him as he sat, half-upright in the bed, and just the mention of the creature that had attacked him sent a shiver through his body. It was as though his body was terrified of the creature even while his mind wasn’t.

_ ‘Instincts never lie.’ _

“I—I’m quite skilled at apparating.” Newt didn’t look at Al-Shalad. “I took a risk when I was close enough to Cairo that I could see the city in the distance. I landed at the Pyramids and—” he swallowed “—the creature, whatever it is, it—it covered the distance so much quicker than I expected it to.”

Newt shivered, shaking his head. “It had injured me, just before I apparated, so I wasn’t—I couldn’t move as quickly as I’d have liked. I’ve never heard anything like it before. It—it was—”

“Evil.”

Newt blinked. He looked at Al-Shalad. The auror’s expression was knowing, something in it going beyond the basic sympathy most would express. Al-Shalad really knew.

“You’ve seen it.”

“No,” Al-Shalad said, shaking his head. “Not this one, but—” he hesitated, bringing his right hand up to scratch at his temple “—I have seen one before, when I was a boy.”

Newt licked his lips. “What is it?”

“It is something that strikes fear in men, all men.” Dark eyes locked with Newt’s own blue-green. “A demon. Some say they were men once, who sold their souls for power and became demonic beasts, monstrous and evil. Ghūl. They—” the auror stood suddenly, moving in a manner that revealed his agitation to Newt “—they are rare, most stick to the desert. I am not even sure there are any other in Egypt beside this one but—they hunt humans, devour children, and are monstrous to look at.”

Newt frowned. “I didn’t see it very well but—the first night I was in the desert—” Al-Shalad started so violently that Newt jumped a little in his bed “—what?”

“You were out in the desert for a whole night!” Al-Shalad’s face had paled a shade or two, the shock from Newt’s words causing his jaw to drop in horror. “By Mafdet, you are a foolish one!”

“I was safe inside my tent,” Newt explained, offended at the idea that he was foolish. He was, but still, the idea that this auror—who knew nothing about him beside his name—had decided Newt was reckless irked him. “It’s warded against evil.”

Al-Shalad stared at him. “You have no tent in your case.”

_ ‘Ah… oops.’ _

He didn’t outwardly react but inside, Newt cursed his thoughtless remark.

“I don’t suppose you’ll believe me if I say I left it in the desert, would you?” he chanced, already knowing from Al-Shalad’s expression what the answer was.

“No.”

“Thought not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments, as always, sustain me!
> 
> Also, Newt is literally just a shit isn't he? Like, completely unapologetic about it too. Gods I love him


	5. The Blue Coat is in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is it really him?" A stupid question really, of course it's him. There's chaos brewing on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So last night I panicked and thought I'd uploaded the wrong chapter for 4 and then spent the whole night waking up like "shit, I fucked up" so just to assuage my own brain, I'm posting chapter 5 _very early_ to hopefully shut it up tonight lol. I only have three more chapters as buffer tho so I may not update as regularly in the coming week until I can get more written.

“So,” Abdoul began, “is he really the—the one called ‘Blue Coat’?”

Al-Shalad looked at the foreigner sat awkwardly in the interrogation room. The window Al-Shalad stood in front of was disillusioned to those inside the interrogation room, so Scamander had no idea he was being watched; but the way the British wizard’s gaze flashed over every part of the room was very telling.

This was someone not to be underestimated. That much was clear considering the case still refused to give up its secrets.

Al-Shalad was well-aware of the time constraints facing him; he needed the foreigner to tell him what he knew, but he also had an obligation to help the wizard before he died from his wounds. Taking him from the temple had been hard enough, and it was only due to his agreeing that two of the head priest’s apprentices would accompany the foreigner to Al-Shalad’s department, that he’d managed to get the Brit out of there at all.

Something about the way Newton Scamander observed his current environment bothered Al-Shalad. He’d watched the British wizard bumble and trip into the door of his room at the temple, assisted out of his bed by the apprentice healers, and yet, Scamander hadn’t caught the chair in the interrogation room with his foot, or bumped into the table, or—

It was odd. Did the British wizard pretend to be so clumsy? If so, why? What did he have to hide?

“Bring the case into the room,” Al-Shalad ordered Abdoul, ignoring the younger aurors question. Whether this wizard was the ‘legendary’ ‘Blue Coat’ was irrelevant. He was a suspicious person and Al-Shalad disliked that. Greatly.

“Yes sir.”

Inside the room, Al-Shalad noted the way Scamander jumped at the sudden opening of the door—the surprise too obvious to have been anything but fake. Though, Al-Shalad thought, perhaps others were tricked by the act; it was convincing enough when combined with the twisting, nervous actions of Scamander’s hands on the table.

“Open the case, Mister Scamander.”

Scamander stared at the case, something in his eyes—only partly hidden by his fringe—before he glanced up at Al-Shalad and away. “You’ve already searched it.”

_ ‘So, you wish to draw this out?’ _ Al-Shalad’s lip twitched. “We have,” he agreed, noting the way Scamander glanced at him again. “But only the first layer of enchantments. The second—” Al-Shalad shrugged “—the second does not wish to break. I wonder what you are hiding, Mister Scamander?”

The British wizard suddenly winced. Al-Shalad watched as he pressed a hand against his side—the side with the wound from that demon—and he frowned. Scamander didn’t have time to play games, surely he understood that?

Al-Shalad sat down opposite Scamander, deciding to change his plan of attack.

“Whatever you are hiding, you are protective of it, yes?” Al-Shalad tapped the top of the case Abdoul had placed on the table. “I have heard of a wizard who has been travelling the world, rumours and hearsay; nothing solid—but one thing that every rumour has in common is this—” Al-Shalad pointed at Scamander’s coat “—a very distinctive colour, Mister Scamander, is it not?”

Scamander didn’t answer.

“One of my colleagues in Australia mentioned a wizard in a blue coat who visited his city last year,” Al-Shalad said conversationally, noticing the way Scamander’s body was almost vibrating with tension. “He insisted that this blue-coated wizard had stolen important evidence in a case; some half-dead husk of a beast that he thought better off dead—”

“Your colleague is a bigoted fool who fears that which he doesn’t understand.”

Scamander’s voice was quiet but there was a biting venom to the words. It was like a scorpion sting; unexpected because the creature hid in your boot and you were too late to protect yourself before it had already attacked.

“He is,” Al-Shalad agreed, amused when Scamander’s eyes snapped up to lock with his own. “But that is not important; he was replaced six months ago with a much better candidate. No. What is important, Mister Scamander, is this; you are hiding creatures in your case that you have stolen from those who have harmed them. Do not deny it, I know it is true, your Ministry confirmed as such when I contacted them after you were brought to the temple for treatment.”

Scamander stared at him, a spark of anger in those blue-green eyes. It was interesting to see.

“You’ve known who I was this whole time but still denied me my case?” the magizoologist demanded.

Al-Shalad nodded.

“Why?”

“Because I want to know why you are in Cairo.”

Scamander shifted in his chair, wincing at the pull on his tender side and leg. “I came to examine some rare beetles,” he said. “I wondered if those caring for them would have any tips for tending to those I found in Jordan during—when I was doing some research on local wildlife in the area.”

Al-Shalad raised an eyebrow. “That is very underwhelming considering your reputation, Mister Scamander.”

Scamander shrugged slightly, looking away from Al-Shalad. “It is the truth,” he said simply and Al-Shalad believed him.

As absurd as it was, it seemed that the famed Blue Coat had come to Egypt for no reason other than to ask for advice.

_ ‘And he found himself attacked by a Ghūl,’ _ he thought.  _ ‘That is some poor luck, indeed.’ _

“Very well.” Al-Shalad nodded, letting the issue rest. “You were attacked by a demon in the desert after surviving a full night out in the sands and managed to apparate to safety.”

Scamander nodded. “But something isn’t right,” he said, looking up at Al-Shalad, a concerned expression on his young face. “The Ghūl, it’s claws are coated in something—some sort of toxin or poison, I think.”

Al-Shalad shifted. “You think it poisoned you?” That changed things.

Although those that had been attacked by the monster had died quickly, succumbing to their wounds, their deaths had been attributed more to the severe blood loss they had experienced. If there was truly something more to the wounds—that whatever traces the healers had reported in the wounds on the victim’s bodies truly was important—

“I’m certain of it.”

That—that changed everything.

“How can you be so certain?” Al-Shalad pressed, looking at the British wizard who met his gaze with a strange sort of calm.

“Pickett won’t come anywhere near me.”

Al-Shalad blinked.

“Who is Pickett?”

Scamander tilted his head to the side, glancing away and down at the case with a sort of earnest shyness that had to be false—no one could look so shy and truly be as such. “The Bowtruckle hiding in my case.”

Al-Shalad frowned. He leaned forward, hit the clasps on the suitcase and lifted the lid in one smooth motion. He didn’t expect to see a set of stairs descending into the case and he certainly didn’t expect to see a small green creature hopping down said steps as quickly as it possibly could.

“Bowtruckle’s are very loyal to their home tree, Auror Al-Shalad,” Scamander explained and Al-Shalad looked up at the British wizard. There was a sad expression on the Brit’s face as he stared after the Bowtruckle. “They only abandon their home tree when it is sick or dying. Pickett chose me as his home tree. That he won’t come near me now? It is more telling than any test a healer can perform.”

Al-Shalad felt a strange kind of sympathy for the British wizard. “I do not know of any way to cure you,” he said. “You are the only one to have survived its attack since it began terrorising the city.”

Scamander glanced at him. “Well,” he said. “That’s not good.”

Al-Shalad stared at him. That was Scamander’s response? The man was insane.

“There’s no poison or curse in existence that doesn’t have a cure,” Scamander said quietly, almost to himself.

“You think you can cure yourself?”

Scamander hummed. “Maybe.” He looked at Al-Shalad suddenly. “Auror Al-Shalad,” he began, a heavy weight to his voice that had Al-Shalad tensing. “I need to enter my case; will you allow that?”

Al-Shalad’s response was immediate. “Not without me.”

Scamander stared at him. Al-Shalad stared right back.

The magizoologist nodded. “Please don’t attack anything,” he asked. “And may I have my wand back please? I will need it.”

Al-Shalad turned his head, glancing at the wall behind him that had the disillusioned window in it. “Bring his wand!” He called out, knowing that Abdoul would do as he instructed.

He looked back at Scamander. “Do you have any idea how long you have? Before the poison kills you?”

Anyone else might have startled at being asked such a question, but Al-Shalad was certain Scamander wasn’t the type to quake in the face of death. He had too much iron in him to be anything other than practical.

Scamander appeared to consider Al-Shalad’s question for a moment before answering, “maybe a day, two at most.” He sighed. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to sleep and sleep is usually how our bodies fight off infections, so it may not even be that long. Exhaustion will do much of the work for the poison.”

“What about taking Pepper-Up?”

The door to the room opened and Abdoul stepped into the room. He held Scamander’s wand.

Al-Shalad waved a hand in Scamander’s direction when Abdoul looked at him for instruction and watched as his auror handed the magizoologist his wand. A spark of magic rippled through the room when Scamander’s fingers wrapped around the handle of his wand that made the hair on Al-Shalad’s neck stand on end.

“That was strange.”

Scamander’s comment drew a surprised laugh from Al-Shalad before he even realised it. Apparently, the foreigner had a penchant for understatements. Somehow it fit with the image of Scamander, Al-Shalad was building in his head.

He stood up. Scamander looked at him. Al-Shalad pointed at the case. “You do not have much time, Mister Scamander. Let’s not waste any more of it.”

Scamander nodded, rising awkwardly to his feet. “It’s best if the case is on the ground,” he said, moving to do just that but Abdoul beat him to it. Al-Shalad noted the slow way Scamander moved; he was obviously tired and in pain from his injuries, but the man seemed determined to ignore his condition.

Al-Shalad found himself liking the British wizard despite his common sense insisting he remain suspicious of the man. Something about Scamander spoke to Al-Shalad’s instincts however, and it prevented him from seeing the wizard as someone worthy of suspicion. Perhaps it was because Scamander seemed so calm about his own situation? Or it may have had something to do with the sadness, Al-Shalad had seen on Scamander’s face as he watched the Bowtruckle flee from him inside his case. That sort of sadness… it was a kind Al-Shalad knew well.

Following the British wizard as Scamander descended into his case, Al-Shalad sensed that the magizoologist was trusting him far more than Al-Shalad was trusting him. Something about entering this case, the second layer of enchantments allowing him entry, spoke of a risk on Scamander’s part.

Al-Shalad wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, but if Scamander could cure himself of the poison in his system, then it was possible the British wizard could be of help battling the Ghūl terrorising Al-Shalad’s city.

He hoped so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank my brain for this lol. Kudos and comments sustain me, as always :)


	6. Into the Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How did you manage to create this?”
> 
> “A lot of extension charms and modifiers... And a lot of explosions before it worked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter arrives!! It should be entertaining. Longer and more plot too. Enjoy!

“How did you manage to create this?”

There was a wealth of surprise in Al-Shalad’s voice as he stepped out into the main part of Newt’s case. Even though the auror hadn’t seen any of Newt’s creatures—Dougal wasn’t in the shed and even the Niffler was hiding, which was probably for the best considering its penchant for shiny objects—the fact that Al-Shalad seemed impressed and mildly awed by Newt’s case made the magizoologist somewhat uncomfortable.

He really wasn’t all that good with praise or awe at what he could do.

“A lot of extension charms and modifiers,” Newt answered, glancing at Al-Shalad, taking in the eyebrows drawn upward for a split-second, the slight opening of the mouth, before turning to focus on what he was doing. Al-Shalad was honestly surprised by Newt’s work. “And a lot of explosions before it worked.”

Al-Shalad chuckled. “The way most inventors work,” he said. “What is this?”

Newt turned. “Oh. Uh. I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.” He grimaced.

Al-Shalad paused, hand mid-air, hovering over an unassuming-looking plant. “Why not?”

Newt shifted awkwardly, fingering his wand as he watched the plant with sharp eyes. “It’s called a Ya-te-veo,” he explained, moving to stand beside Al-Shalad who dropped his hand back down to his side. “I’ve seen variations of it in Africa and on islands in the Indian Ocean as well as in South America, but this one—” he reached out and gently, quickly, tapped one of the thin vines, his hand snapping back to his side as the plant burst into movement “—I was given in Central America. They generally eat insects but have been known to devour unsuspecting humans; magical and muggle alike.”

Al-Shalad stared at him.

“You do not have a permit for it, do you?”

Newt shrugged. “It’s a plant, not a creature,” he answered, evading the question. “Muggles think it’s a hoax anyway.”

He turned away from the plant, surreptitiously hitting it with a mild binding charm, causing the vines to cease their writhing, tentacle-like movements.

Al-Shalad looked at Newt with a somewhat horrified expression on his face. “That is singularly horrifying, Scamander,” he declared, and Newt couldn’t fault the auror for his statement.

“I’ve been meaning to put it in its own space but, well, with ending up in the desert and then attacked…” Newt trailed off, shrugging. “I’ll get around to it.”

Ignoring the expression on Al-Shalad’s face as it changed from mild horror to concern, Newt made his way over to the Cerastes enclosure. He needed to test something before he tried to figure out a cure for the poison in his system.

“ _ Sasha _ .” Newt called out, purposefully not reacting to the way Al-Shalad tensed beside him as they stood on the threshold to Sasha’s enclosure. “ _ Sasha, I need your help _ .”

“You speak the language of snakes.” Al-Shalad’s voice was flat, empty of emotion but Newt still felt that the auror distrusted him. “An interesting skill.”

Newt bit his lip, face turned away from Al-Shalad as he stared at the environment Sasha called home.

“I know several healers who speak it,” Al-Shalad said into the awkward silence between them. Newt twitched. “They say it is hard to learn and harder still to earn.”

Newt glanced at Al-Shalad.

“We do not have the same views of it as your countrymen, Scamander.” The auror rested a hand on Newt’s shoulder and Newt tensed beneath it. “Here, it is recognised for what it is; a gift.”

Newt’s lips twisted. He inclined his head. “Thank you.”

Al-Shalad’s hand fell from Newt’s shoulder and the magizoologist breathed a silent sigh of relief at the loss of contact. He really wasn’t comfortable with anyone touching him at the best of times, but with the pain from his injuries and the poison in his veins… it was too much. The pressure on his skin felt painful, imparting too much sensation that he just couldn’t process. It prickled, felt coarse and harsh, like especially stiff fabric with frayed edges rubbing over his skin over and over until it was red and burning.

The sound of something slithering over rocks drew Newt’s attention away from the ghost sensation of Al-Shalad’s hand on his shoulder. He looked over at the rockery to the right of the entrance to Sasha’s enclosure.

He smiled.

“ _ Sasha _ .”

_ “You smell wrong.” _ Sasha’s serpentine voice held a note of stark worry as she slithered right up to Newt, curling up in front of him.  _ “And who is the other? Is he a threat?” _

Newt shook his head.

_ “An auror,” _ he said, awkwardly kneeling down. His leg trembled as the motion, but he ignored both it and the pain in his side and calf.  _ “What do you mean by ‘smell wrong’?” _

Sasha’s tongue flicked out, her eyes blinking as she reared back in surprise.  _ “You smell of evil! How is this possible? You are not evil!” _

Newt frowned. That wasn’t good.

“What does the serpent say, Mister Scamander?” Al-Shalad’s voice was a surprise—Newt hadn’t forgot the auror was there exactly, but Sasha’s attention had become his sole focus—and Newt fought back an instinctive twitch toward his wand. “You seem concerned by its words.”

Newt looked up at the auror. “Sasha,” he said, motioning toward the snake curled up in front of him with a hand, “is a Cerastes. They are capable of detecting evil. It was Sasha who sensed the evil in the desert when I didn’t.”

He looked at her.

“She says I smell wrong,” he explained quietly, “of evil. It is worrying her.”

Al-Shalad was silent for a long moment. “The poison?”

Newt nodded. “I would imagine, yes,” he said, reaching out to touch Sasha’s head. The Cerastes was visibly hesitant to allow his touch but she didn’t strike at him or move away.

_ “I’m sorry, Sasha. I should have listened to you,” _ he murmured, fingertips glossing over the ridges above her eyes.  _ “I should have set up camp the moment the sun began to set. This wouldn’t have happened, if I had.” _

_ “You were attacked by it!” _ Sasha’s head reared up so high that she met Newt’s eyes at an equal height, her tongue flicking out in agitation.  _ “I told you it was evil! You were hurt by it! I can smell the blood! And—”  _ her head tilted to the side  _ “—sickness. That is the evil I smell on you!” _

Newt’s frown grew.  _ “I’m cursed?” _

Sasha nodded.  _ “Yes,” _ she hissed.  _ “It’s in your blood!” _

“That’s not good.” Newt looked at Al-Shalad who stared at him and Sasha in confusion.

“What is not good?”

Shifting, Newt painfully shifted his stance to try and stand when Al-Shalad held a hand out for him to take. He stared at it for a long moment before gritting his teeth and taking the help offered. Newt knew he couldn’t stand without it, but his senses itched at the contact. “Thank you.”

Al-Shalad waved his thanks away. “What is not good, Scamander?” he asked again, focused on the situation.

Newt hesitated. If he told the auror what Sasha had, would it be of any use? Al-Shalad obviously hoped Newt could offer him some useful information about the Ghūl, something to fight it, and what Sasha had told him wasn’t exactly that. Yet, withholding the information seemed pointless as well. It would at least be of interest to the healers.

“Sasha has determined that I’ve got a blood curse from the Ghūl,” Newt said bluntly. “From what I know of blood curses, they are almost always fatal.”

“Almost?”

“Sometimes if the source of the curse is destroyed the blood curse is lifted,” Newt elaborated, leaning against the edge of Sasha’s enclosure. He felt her slither up his leg—the one that wasn’t injured—and shifted to allow her to climb further up his body until she was coiled loosely around his shoulders. Al-Shalad had, interestingly, not reacted to Sasha’s actions. “I don’t know if that applies with a Ghūl.”

Al-Shalad frowned. “Nor do I.”

“Do you know anyone who might?” Newt hazarded, hoping that the auror might know someone. It was a long-shot considering the circumstances, but Newt had never heard of a single creature or material that someone wasn’t knowledgeable on. He only hoped that whoever knew about Ghūls was nearby.

The sickly feeling in his chest was oppressive and growing by the second; he knew he didn’t have much time before the poison weakened him beyond the point of recovery.

“I don’t think—” Al-Shalad paused, tilting his head in thought as Newt watched “—actually, I might…” he trailed off, looking away from Newt with a distant expression on his face. “A nomad from my childhood. He was the one who trapped the demon that terrorised the city then. I do not know if he still lives but—it is something.”

Newt sighed, a slight smile on his face. “It is,” he agreed. “It is.”

 

* * *

 

The man waiting for them in Al-Shalad's office was dressed in a  _ djellaba _ , striped black and grey with a  _ qob  _ covering his head. He turned at the sound of the office door opening, and Newt was greeted with the face of an old man of at least seventy years with mismatched eyes—one brown, one olive green.

The man cocked his head to the side, an impassive expression on his face. "It is always the eyes that are noticed first when strangers see my face," he commented, in deep, accented English. "Strange that you did not."

Newt blinked. "Uh—"

The man waved away Newt's response. "It is just strange, nothing more," he said, the impassive expression fading into one of careful scrutiny. "You notice many things about a person  _ Afrangi _ . More than most would expect from you."

"I am Izemrasen," he continued, before Newt could say anything else, inclining his head at them. "Izemrasen Aïtbrahim. Mosod is lucky to have found me in the city now. I was planning on leaving as soon as my business was complete."

"Your business?" Newt asked quietly, avoiding looking Aïtbrahim in the eye, his gaze focusing on everything else about the man he could intuit. "You are a nomad aren't you?"

Aïtbrahim smiled. It was a sharp smile. "I have travelled much in my life," he replied, "a thing you relate to, no?"

"I travel to study magical creatures in a bid to protect them from fearful ignorance." Newt's eyes almost made contact with Aïtbrahim's but he jerked his head to the side, disrupting the instinctive eye contact. "I don't carry firearms loaded with silver or a stiletto made of the stuff. Especially not into an auror's office."

Al-Shalad moved between them, hands raised. "That is eno—"

Aïtbrahim laughed. "You have a wand,  _ Afrangi _ that could kill me in a moment," he pointed out, pulling his sleeve back on his right arm just enough for the stiletto blade to be visible. "I have no wand, no magic that you would know. I have only a pistol and a blade when I travel."

Newt blinked. "You're a muggle?"

Al-Shalad sighed. "Damn it," he muttered, dropping his hands and, stepping between them, he picked up a freshly poured tea from his desk. He dropped down into his chair, watching the nomad and magizoologist in front of his desk.

"Muggle?" Aïtbrahim echoed, a tone of polite ignorance in his tone that instantly raised Newt's hackles.

"What the western magical world calls those who are born without magical aptitude," Newt explained, an itch growing in the back of his mind that had him wanting to cast his magic out because  _ he couldn't read Aïtbrahim _ .

"You are western," Aïtbrahim pointed out. "Do you think your western magic is the only type of magic?"

The was something dangerous in the question from the nomad and, even though Newt prepared to cast his magic out, he couldn't help but snort despite it.

"Of course not. Magic is, by definition, impossible to categorise. If all magic was the same, then—then why is it that goblins can cast spells and perform rituals that no human is capable of? If magic followed simple patterns then why are there entire communities that have not aged for centuries whether they are born with 'active' magic or not?" Newt shook his head. "A muggle in Britain posits that it is genetics, hereditary things that determine if we are born with red hair or brown eyes, or—for witches and wizards—magic."

Both Aïtbrahim and Al-Shalad stared at him.

"Do you believe this?" Aïtbrahim asked.

Newt nodded. "I do. And I know," he continued, "that magic is also so,  _ so much more _ than genetics. It is the very existence of reality and—and everything around us. I don't believe there are any who are—are 'without magic', only those who have more of it and can use it, those who have it and cannot, and those who have little of it and can only pass it on to their children."

Newt looked away from them, his body that had been fidgeting slightly—his fingers tapping against each other on his left hand in a random rhythm, jaw muscles tightening and loosening in tension—growing still as he stared at a single point in Al-Shalad's office; his mind elsewhere.

"I once watched a young girl perform some of the most amazing magical feats with no formal training," he whispered, shoulders slumping as his brow creased with sadness. "She could bring rain to a starved valley and clear the clouds just by wishing it. No spells, no incantations, no rituals. Just her desire. Magic is magic, and we're just part of it." He shook his head. "Her town called her their Hope because she made it possible for them to survive in a harsh climate where starvation was a daily occurrence. But she couldn't use a wand, had no capacity for spell casting, and would be called a muggle, squib, or not even human by western magic."

Newt looked at the two men. "She was just a child who could do things no one else could." His gaze focused on Aïtbrahim, eyes finally locking with the nomad as he said, firmly, "You're a muggle because I know you can't cast spells, but you have magic. I just don't know if you can use it in a way others in Britain would consider non-human."

Aïtbrahim stared at Newt. Newt stared back.

Al-Shalad sighed.

"Izemrasen," the auror said, sitting down at his desk. The nomad looked at him. "Mister Scamander, was attacked by a ghul last night. In the—"

"The desert, outside Cairo?" Aïtbrahim looked at Newt with interest. "Something inhuman and monstrous, impossible to describe but every part of you fears it?"

Newt nodded.

"That you are alive is a testament to your will," Aïtbrahim said, impressed. "I am surprised you escaped it without harm."

"I didn't."

"What?" Aïtbrahim's tone shifted, something like alarm colouring it. "You were injured? Where? Show me!"

Al-Shalad and Newt glanced at each other even as Aïtbrahim moved towards the magizoologist. Newt instinctively took a step back when Aïtbrahim got too close to him, a hand coming up to keep the nomad back. Aïtbrahim immediately stopped.

"Mister Scamander?" Al-Shalad carefully put his tea down on his desk. "Izemrasen can be trusted. He will not harm you." He leaned forward in his chair, gaze fixed on Newt's face. "You need not fear he will. I give you my word."

The way Newt stood—his hand out, distance between him and Aïtbrahim, the tightening of his jaw muscles—made it clear to Aïtbrahim and Al-Shalad both that he was wary of being touched by anyone.

"You do not trust me; I am a stranger and you are injured," Aïtbrahim observed, standing with his hands by his sides, in view of Newt who watched them warily. "But I give you my word, I will not harm you."

Newt stared at Aïtbrahim for a long moment before nodding slowly. He lowered his hand, squared his stance, and lifted the side of his shirt to show his bandaged side. "I ah—I've had some—bad experiences when injured—in the past," he explained as he watched Aïtbrahim carefully approach him. "They've left an—uh—an impression, I guess." He fell silent as Aïtbrahim gently unwound the bandage around his side, revealing the wound.

"Your ministry file mentioned you fought in the Great War," Al-Shalad commented from his position at his desk. "But it is vague."

Aïtbrahim glanced up at Newt's face from where he had begun to lean at an angle to look at his injury. Running along his ribs from the front of his right side, just below his armpit, to mid-way down his back below his sixth rib was a gash of almost six inches. Around the edges of it were signs that the temple healers had administered some sort of salve designed to heal wounds that were resistant to standard healing spells. Aïtbrahim hummed.

"There is the start of black veins around this wound, mister Scamander," he said. "This wound is poisoned."

Newt waited for Aïtbrahim to replace the bandage around his side before lowering his shirt. "The other one will be too then."

"Other one?"

"On my right leg."

Aïtbrahim nodded. "Most likely, yes," he agreed.

The office fell silent before Al-Shalad spoke.

"Can you do anything for him, Izemrasen? Know any way to cure him? Or to kill the Ghūl?" The auror asked, gesturing to the chairs on the other side of his desk. Both Newt and Aïtbrahim sat down.

"I know of no way to cure someone poisoned by a Djinn," Aïtbrahim admitted, shaking his head. "But to kill it? That I know. Or—" he corrected "—I know of ways to kill some types of Djinn."

Newt looked at the nomad. "There's more than one?"

Aïtbrahim nodded. "Several," he explained, "some are harder to kill than others, some are mostly harmless spirits who have not yet passed on, and some… some are like what has attacked you  _ Afrangi _ . Like what haunts Cairo."

"This Ghūl is one that silver will not kill. It will weaken it, cause it pain, but it will not kill it. My pistol and blade will be of little use for my mission—but we did not know what kind of Djinn it was that I tracked." The nomad shook his head. "Now, it will be your job Mosod, you and your aurors."

Al-Shalad blinked. "Can it be killed with magic?"

Aïtbrahim shrugged. "I do not know," he admitted, looking at Newt and Al-Shalad. "Perhaps, perhaps not. But if it cannot be killed, it will have to be caged. Or it will kill dozens before it moves back to the desert."

"There must be some way to kill it," Newt said. "Nothing in this world is immortal. Maybe the killing curse…" he trailed off.

Al-Shalad looked at the magizoologist. "If it comes to it, mister Scamander," he agreed quietly. "But let us hope it does not."

"I know of one other Ghūl like the one now," Aïtbrahim said, accepting the tea Al-Shalad offered him in the silence that had fallen. He picked up the cup and blew on the hot liquid. "A long time ago, when Egypt was still two kingdoms. It is a tale my people have shared with each generation, and I believe the Bedouin of the desert know it also."

Newt and Al-Shalad listened to Aïtbrahim as he spoke.

"It goes like this: in the city of Memphis a young priest was set on by a horrifying beast, with one leg like a donkey, a grotesque face and long claws, that whispered his name. He escaped with his life but was injured—cursed. The head priest took him into the desert where he drank a sacred potion that showed him how he could be saved. But it was only with the death of the Ghūl that would guarantee his survival. I cannot recall all of the details—I was a child when I heard this tale—but Hor-em-akhet guided him to salvation between his massive paws." Aïtbrahim finished, taking a long sip of his tea.

"Hor-em-akhet?" Newt asked, looking between Aïtbrahim and Al-Shalad.

"The Great Sphinx by the pyramids," Al-Shalad answered. "If the tale is true then there is a way to kill or trap this Ghūl within the Great Sphinx." He shook his head. "Fantastic."

Aïtbrahim shrugged. "It is just a story," he said, "an old one I have mostly forgotten. Abou-l Hwl may have nothing to do it with. It could just be something made up by one of my ancestors. I cannot say for certain."

Newt looked at the nomad. "It's something," he countered and Aïtbrahim nodded. "I know it's poisoned me, I can feel it in my system, but I—I don't know much about Djinn or Ghūl's. What you've told me is more—it's something."

They fell silent, each holding cups of tea that rapidly cooled the longer they remained silent. Al-Shalad and Aïtbrahim both watched Newt as the magizoologist seemed to disappear within himself, losing himself in his thoughts even as he remained aware of his surroundings.

After ten minutes of silence, someone knocked on Al-Shalad's door, startling them all.

"Sir, the healers are insisting the foreigner—uh—Mister Scamander, return to the temple for the night."

Newt might have protested but the stern look Al-Shalad gave the magizoologist dissuaded him. The auror and nomad watched as he left the office, winged by two healers who all but dived on their patient and hurried him out of the palace, back to the temple for rest.

"His magic is strong, Mosod," Aïtbrahim said, still looking at the door to Al-Shalad's office with an inscrutable expression on his face. "Out in the desert you said—he drew the Ghūl to him with his strength. It will not let him go easily."

Al-Shalad sighed. "I know. Mister Scamander will be our bait if he agrees and we may be able to kill this thing before it kills anyone else."

Aïtbrahim looked down at his cup of tea. "The gods willing," he said softly. "The gods willing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I won't update again for maybe another week idk for sure, just depends on how real life goes. But, as always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated and sustain me :)


	7. Run Rabbit, Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scream. Flesh tore. Blood poured. A face. Contorted in terror and pain. Wide eyes. A gaping mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And into the rabbit hole we go...

Ordered to return to the temple by the healers following his every step, Newt had begrudgingly allowed the healer closest to him at the time—Atum, he called himself—to apparate him into the temple foyer. He’d then been hurried to a room where he’d been expected to settle down for the night until such point that the head healer—Hanif—was able to see him.

Needless to say, Newt had no intention of doing such a thing.

With the poison already in his system, and working its way through it fast, Newt had little time to waste on waiting for healers to fuss over him. It was paramount that he found the creature and stopped it before it could harm anyone else.

However, he hadn't accounted for his own exhaustion overtaking his determination. The bed in his room was comfortable, plush with pillows and soft cotton blankets, and it seduced Newt's body into a gentle slumber.

A slumber that quickly lost its gentle nature.

Bright colours bled away into dim shades, mostly greyscale. Shapes coalesced into objects, walls and doors and dismantled market stalls. Silence became deep rumbling breaths and howling wind down winding streets.

Newt ran along them, lolloping awkwardly with an uneven gait that felt both alien and natural to him. Hands scratched along the street walls, close and narrow, using them to propel his body faster down the streets as he searched.

His quarry was near, close by but difficult to access in the warren of streets he travelled through. Hunger clawed at him. He needed to eat.

A gap in the streets, a shortcut to his meal and Newt dived down it. He could hear it breathing, a little ragged, fearful as it realised something was amiss. Newt's jaws cracked into a grotesque grin. The fear made the taste all the sweeter.

Outside the bazaar, in the shadow of one of its many arches, Newt's meal sat, awkward and wary of the night. He knew that, before he had come, the streets used to be full of life, the kind that lived best in the shadows of polite society. They were fewer now, fear made them cautious but desperation made them foolish.

Newt enjoyed it when they were foolish. Foolish and  _ alone _ .

Like his quarry. His meal for the night. It was meagre, barely worth much effort, but Newt was hungry. He had lost his first meal the night before and had no opportunity to be picky with his meal tonight. This one would do.

For now.

Moving fast, Newt crossed the distance separating him from his meal—the little cut through and the arch of the bazaar less than twenty feet apart—and was on it in a flash.

A scream. Flesh tore. Blood poured. A face. Contorted in terror and pain. Wide eyes. A gaping mouth. A young boy.

Newt woke with a scream choking him, fear and adrenaline and exultation burning in his veins. The darkness pulsed.

He threw himself off the bed, to the ceramic bowl on the nightstand nearby. His door opened at the commotion and Newt heard as the ward healer spoke to him in mixed English and Arabic, asking him if he was well.

Newt ignored him, dry heaving into the bowl, big fat tears sliding down his face and adding to the acidic mess in the bowl.

"I shall get Hanif!"

He wanted to tell the healer 'no', that there was no need, that it was pointless. But he couldn't get his breathing under control. His body felt alien to him. His gait was too smooth, his balance to level, fingers soft and not pointed claws.

What had he seen? What was that?

Slowly, shakily, Newt settled back into his own skin, the sense of being an outsider in his own body, his own being, fading away, replaced by the comfortable assurance that this form, this lanky frame with thin limbs and lean muscles, golden-red hair in a tousled, sweat-soaked mess, and pale skin with a sunburnt brown glean to it. The scars and shiny-mottled burns that grew across the backs of his legs—forever pulling on his unburnt skin. He knew those. They were what Newt knew.

He looked at his reflection in the small mirror on the table above the bowl.  _ 'I am me, I am not that monster.' _

A monster that had, if Newt's dream was real, just killed a young boy outside a bazaar somewhere in Cairo. A monster Newt had led to the city. A monster that was his responsibility to stop.

Newt had no doubt that the aurors in the city were good at their jobs and highly capable but, as Theseus had admitted to him once after one too many firewhiskeys, aurors weren’t especially adept at dealing with actual beasts and creatures. They were barely capable of handling other magical  _ beings _ , let alone the ones Newt was most familiar with.

Coupled with the fact that the Ghūl—this Djinn—had followed Newt to the city…

Well, Newt felt it would be his fault if any others were harmed or killed by the Ghūl. He had to make it  _ right _ .

And that meant sneaking out of the temple without alerting any of the healers.

Opening his case, Newt carefully descended into the shed within, an alert charm on the case ensuring that he would be able to get back out before anyone opened his door and found him ‘missing’.

“Dougal,” he called softly, aware that the Demiguise was in the shed—had been earlier with Al-Shalad—and watching him with invisible eyes. “Dougal, I need your help.”

Newt didn’t often ask his creatures for help but they offered it constantly. Pickett was one example. An example that had gone and hidden in one of Newt’s other coats hung up in the shed; Newt hadn’t the heart to approach the Bowtruckle because he knew that his current condition upset the Bowtruckle immensely.

It upset the other creatures also—Sasha hadn’t been the only one distressed by his predicament during his visit with Al-Shalad; the Erumpent’s had herded their new-born away from Newt, snuffling in distress in a way that suggested they wished to do otherwise but instinct was guiding them to act to protect their offspring from something harmful.

Dougal, in typical fashion, flickered into sight just off to Newt’s left, revealing he’d chosen to hide beneath Newt’s ramshackle table stacked with plant pots and scattered notes. The normally docile and friendly Demiguise seemed hesitant but didn’t flee when Newt crouched down to be eye-level with him.

“Hello Dougal,” Newt crooned softly, purposefully keeping his limbs as loose and relaxed as possible. He tilted his head back slightly and to the side, revealing his neck and avoiding any confrontational behavioural cues that Dougal might react to. It seemed all of Newt’s creatures could sense the poison in his system, the mark of evil from the Ghūl that had attacked him in the desert, so he was taking extra caution with his behaviour around them all.

The Demiguise snorted softly. His lips were still covering his lips—a good sign—and he hadn’t brought his hands up from his sides—also pretty good—so Newt felt it was safe enough for him to sit fully on the floor of his shed. Dougal watched him with an assessing gaze that revealed the intelligence Demiguise possessed; something few realised or cared to learn about.

“I need to get out of the temple so I can try and find a way to get rid of what’s poisoning me,” Newt explained, his voice soft and gentle, as he watched Dougal out of the corner of his eye—as a simian creature not dissimilar from the orangutan, it was always wise to avoid too much eye contact (or any, really) with Demiguise; even one as friendly as Dougal. “Will you help me, Dougal?”

The Demiguise slowly crawled out from beneath the table, movements slow and wary. The soft sound he made was, for the most part, a cautious agreement to help Newt. Somehow, Newt felt that was going to be the best he’d get from Dougal for now.

Newt extended a hand to Dougal, holding it in the air a few inches away from the Demiguise so he could smell him and recognise Newt’s true scent. Even with the poison—the evil—in his system, Newt knew that his overall scent was recognisable to Dougal by the way the Demi guise’s posture shifted, becoming friendlier with him.

“There are some healers who think they can help me, but I don’t think they can, Dougal,” Newt admitted, climbing to his feet slowly. Dougal followed him over to the steps out of the shed and into the room Newt had been guided into earlier. “I know they’re just doing their jobs, but this creature needs to be found, and I think I can find it.”

The poison in Newt’s veins had steadily grown more and more noticeable, the effects of it causing him moments of intense pain and flashing lights in his eyes that left him blinded for several seconds every time. Just after dusk, there had been a strong flare of the poison that had every ounce of self-control Newt possessed dedicated to not curling up in agony before it had passed as quickly as it came.

He figured it had something to do with the Ghūl that had attacked him. Some sort of blood link tied him to it and through it, Newt could sort of glean an insight, a sense of where it was. He’d been studying a map of Cairo at the time, just outside Al-Shalad's office after meeting with Aïtbrahim and the auror, when the pain had hit him.

Newt had experienced his fair share of pain in the past, both with various illnesses he seemed skilled at contracting, and also injuries from his work as a magizoologist, but that poison… It had overrun him. In the room, Newt waited for Dougal to climb out of the case before closing it—leaving the clasps open—and slid it under the bed. He looked at Dougal.

“They’ll be back soon, Dougal,” he said, and the Demiguise made a soft sound of understanding. “When they open the door, we’ll sneak out, but you must go back into the case and wait for me to return.”

Dougal shook his head.

“Please, Dougal,” Newt begged. “I must know you are safe, you can’t come with me. If you are harmed by this Ghūl—I wouldn’t forgive myself.” He held out his hand, fingers outstretched in an offering that Dougal responded to; the Demiguise touched the tips of his own fingers to Newt’s. “Thank you.”

The sound of rushing feet alerted Newt that the healers were returning and he looked at Dougal. The Demiguise's coat shimmered, waves of light passing through it bit by bit until the last moment when the space where Dougal had stood was empty. Until he opened his eyes.

Newt didn't shiver at the sensation of Dougal's own ability to disappear as it slid over him from where their fingers touched, the Demiguise's long digits moving to circle around Newt's wrist. So long as the contact wasn't broken, Newt would remain as invisible as Dougal.

The door opened in a flurry of sound and movement, three individuals dressed in healer's robes—light cotton blends owing to the climate rather than thick wool and silk—entered with wands in their hands.

"Where is he?" One demanded, looking around with a panicked expression. "Where is my patient?"

"I—I don't know!" The one at the back stammered. Newt recognised him as the one who had checked on him when he'd woken. "He was here when I went to find you, Master Hanif!"

Hanif stepped over to the bed that was in disarray. Newt's nightmare had left it a mess, a pillow on the floor, another at the bottom of the bed among scrunched up covers. On one of the covers were several small dots of blood.

"Find him, now."

Newt kept his eyes mostly closed, seeing through a thin slit as Dougal and he left his room; skirting around the healers as they grow more and more agitated. Newt respected their worry and could more than understand their desire to treat him and keep him under observation. However, he had a job to do and he couldn't just sit around and wait to die.

If he was going to die then he'd at least go out taking down this Ghūl that preyed on innocents with vicious glee.

Together, he and Dougal made it out of the temple without alerting anyone to their escape—even as two aurors barged through the doors and narrowly avoided colliding with Newt as he went to open them. Outside the sun had long since set and it was at least another few hours before sunrise, leaving the city blanketed in shades of blue, black, purple, and grey that lent the unease and unnaturalness of the absence of activity in the streets a more sinister edge. 

Newt turned and gently unfurled Dougal's fingers from around his wrist, reappearing in a shimmering wave like a cloth had been blown by the wind on a line; gentle and smooth. He leaned down, careful to avoid straining his side and leg. The Demiguise let out a quiet sound but didn't reveal himself to Newt's sight. 

"Go back now, Dougal," the magizoologist said quietly. "If I don't come back then Thee will come and get my case and he'll take care of all of you." Dougal let out a distressed sound. "I know. I hope it won't happen either."

A cat yowled down a street somewhere and Newt stood up. "I love you, all of you so much Dougal," he said softly. "Be safe."

With that, Newt turned away from the Demiguise and headed down the street to the left of the temple, his destination firmly set in his mind.

 

* * *

 

Newt knew that the Ghūl would follow him once it got his scent. Even with its initial hunger sated by the—the child, it wouldn't hesitate to hunt him down and kill him. He'd gotten away from it. Had escaped death and it wanted to devour him.

So Newt made himself bait.

He used the tip of his wand to draw a thin line along the palm of his left hand, wincing at the sting as blood welled from the slice that followed the line; a simple spell most healers knew. Then, using his magic, he cast out in a way that he seldom did. 

Newt made his presence  _ known _ .

The magical aura and his blood would do the majority of the work drawing the Ghūl to him, leaving Newt with avoiding it until he reached the Sphinx. If Aïtbrahim's story was accurate, he should find a way to defeat the Ghūl there. If it wasn't—the Giza Plateau was far enough from the city that no one else would be harmed if Newt managed to kill the Ghūl. He had a plan for if he couldn't use the same method the priest had in Aïtbrahim's story.

Newt really hoped he wouldn't have to use it.

The streets of Cairo were all but deserted. No one seemed willing to leave their homes, small trickles of light emanating from behind drawn curtains and blinds pulled down over windows and doors alike. It was surreal. Even the Nile seemed devoid of activity, its water still as though frozen.

The very land on which Cairo was situated seemed to be holding its breath.

An almighty screech broke the silence of the night, startling birds hiding on rooftops and in whatever greenery they could find. Newt grimaced. The chase was on.

He broke into a run, ignoring the twinge in his leg at the pressure and force each step slammed through the muscles, bones and joints. He had a Sphinx to reach and little time to do it. The Ghūl would be close on his tail.

Outside of the city, on the outskirts near where Newt had first arrived in the city, Newt had the sense that he was being watched. He glanced behind him. There! A glint of silver eyes, reflecting the light of the moon hanging in the sky.

Newt didn't panic, he didn't let his fear overrun him, but it was a near thing. Knowing he was leading the Ghūl to an isolated location, away from any immediate help if things went wrong—Newt only had himself to rely on.

It wasn't that unusual but the magizoologist had never gone up against something like this evil thing. Almost all of his previous close calls had been with humans. Even outnumbered, Newt was more than capable of handling humans. But this Ghūl was in another league entirely.

The head of the Great Sphinx loomed out of the sands, imposing and deformed by hammer and chisel. In the gloom and light from only the moon, the shadows cast upon its features distorted a humanoid facade into something inhuman. Newt had a brief thought that he could understand why the Sphinx was considered so terrifying by the Arabs of the region. It was truly terrifying to look upon.

But it still paled in comparison to the Ghūl closing in on him.

Falling to his knees in front of the Sphinx, Newt's magic—still outstretched around him like a magical shield—quivered. At the base of the Sphinx, beneath its head, between the paws, something reacted to Newt's magic—tainted enough by the poison from the Ghūl to cause a reaction. He scrambled back as the sand beneath his knees fell away, drained by some unknown means, revealing a set of stone steps leading down beneath the Sphinx.

Glancing back in the direction of Cairo, Newt saw a black mass moving towards the Plateau at speed. The Ghūl was close.

_ 'I hope this works,' _ he thought—prayed—as he rose to his feet and took the steps two at a time.  _ 'Please, let it work.' _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are, as always, appreciated and sustain me.
> 
> Also, screaming incoherently at me for the shit I do to Newt is also acceptable ;)


	8. Into the Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> None of this was real, _it couldn't be_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confusion and dangers continue for Newt. It's fun :D
> 
> Also, this is all I have so far so everything from here-on-in is come as it goes. I'm sorry about that, I had planned to have this whole thing finished but... uh... life... things... ya know.

Torches erupted into life, flickering an ethereal blue-green, casting macabre shadows along the walls of the long passageway Newt emerged into. Behind him, the silver moonlight faded, casting the steps behind him in blackness—as though they were no longer there. His whole body twitched at the unnatural cast to everything beneath the Sphinx; nothing seemed real and yet, Newt reached out and touched the wall to his right, it was.

Even illusions cast by magic felt like illusions to Newt, especially with his own magic cast out around him as it was. But this place—it defied his senses.

A soft whisper of a breeze rolled down the passageway, blue-green flames flickering and Newt turned his attention to the seemingly unending passageway lit by torches on the walls. It seemed like something was attempting to capture Newt's attention; subtly.

The breeze came again, stronger, blowing bits of sand on the ground up in the air in incomprehensible patterns. Newt strained his ears, shivering when he realised that, upon that breeze, he could hear music.

Distant—far down the passageway—but he could hear it. It reminded him of the gentlest notes of a flute. Something else mixed in with it, a stringed instrument that Newt couldn't identify.

He took a step down the passageway.

Then he took another.

It was a mesmerising tune. His mind felt soothed just hearing it, distant as it was. 

But the mirage was shattered when a shrill screech sounded behind him, back at the top of the steps Newt had all-but forgotten about, enamoured with the faint music.

In a moment, his mind kicked back into action, magic flaring out protectively, cutting off the music in the breeze from affecting him any longer. Some sort of lure to make listeners placid and docile? Newt glanced behind him at the steps. It didn't matter.

What mattered was that Newt had a Ghūl on his tail and it wanted to rip him apart. He didn't have time to fall prey to anything else.

Breaking into another run, Newt half-ran, half-limped down the passageway, wand out and raised just in case anything attacked him. His occlumency shields were still strong, so whatever had created that music was either beyond powerful or didn't actively attempt to invade his mind.

_ 'Or it's both,'  _ he thought. Considering his luck, both was more likely.

The passageway felt like it went on for miles, an unending trek to some impossible destination, but eventually, finally, it opened out into a square room. In the centre of the room was a pond—or pool, Newt wasn't entirely certain which—that didn't reflect the light from the sconces in the corners of the room. He peered closer at it. There was definitely some sort of liquid in it, he could see it lapping against the sides, but it still didn't reflect any light.

It was just black nothingness.

On the walls, all around him, were hieroglyphs and Newt cursed. He couldn't read any of them. Whatever he needed to do in this chamber, he had no idea, but he bet that the writing on the walls explained everything.

_ 'Just my luck.' _

He moved toward the wall opposite to the passageway, noting that there were fewer hieroglyphs on it. It looked almost as though there were drawings—diagrams?—on it, mixed in between the hieroglyphs. Newt brought his wand up to the wall and cast a silent  _ lumos _ .

"Is that—oh," he murmured, eyes widening in surprise. He might not be able to read the hieroglyphs but the image he was looking at was more than enough for him to get a feel for what they might explain. "Oh I hope this doesn't end badly for me."

He turned away from the wall, wand tip still lit, and looked at the room. The black pool, circular and full of something his magic found strange to sense, and the passageway light by the blue-green torches. He could see a shape down the passageway, growing larger and closer second-by-second.

The Ghūl.

Newt looked down at the pool.

"It's now or never," he said, breathing deeply. 

Newt took a step forward, toward the pool. The Ghūl was at the entrance to the room, jaws open wide in a mockery of a smile, growling audibly at the sight of its prey. Newt looked at it, fear in his gut warring with his determination. 

A gnarled arm, elongated and reminiscent of a werewolf when transformed, snapped out toward him. Newt ducked, falling forward, into the pool.

Blackness overtook him. He couldn't see. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't—

It was like falling. It wasn't like falling. It was like nothing Newt could describe. No words could describe it. No image could define it. Nothing. It was nothing.

It was  _ everything _ .

 

* * *

 

He opened his eyes with a groan. Sunlight stabbed into his eyes and he snapped them shut with another groan. He brought a hand up, blocking the sunlight from his eyes before carefully, slowly opening them again. It was warm and bright and airy.

The sky was blue and gold, mixed swirls of colour like a painters canvas. Unreal. Illusionary. Beautiful.

Beneath him, Newt felt soft grass, the kind that he used to roll in as a child with Theseus. It was a time when he'd never thought anything could hurt him. He'd been safe and happy and loved. But he was an adult now. 

Newt wasn't a child anymore.

This wasn't right.

_ 'Where am I?' _

He sat up suddenly, no pain in his side or leg, and paused at the headrush the sudden movement caused. All around him, Newt realised, were golden-green stalks of wheat grass, swaying gently in the breeze. Everything was so bright and peaceful.

Good.

_ 'It's not real. None of this is real.' _

Newt rose to his feet, emerging from the wheat grass like a golden-red sunflower growing tall in the sun. The field went on for what seemed like forever, an unending blanket of golden-green all the way to the horizon. 

"Where am I?" Newt wondered aloud, turning in a circle. "What is this place?"

Off to his right, Newt spotted a line in the wheat grass, a gap that ran the length of the seemingly unending field. It was a dirt track, he realised as he moved toward it. Where it went to, he couldn't tell, but Newt figured his best bet was to follow it.

He just had to choose a direction. 

_ Da-rum da-rum. Da-rum da-rum da-rum. Da-rum da-rum. _

Newt turned his head to the right, a hand over his eyes like the peak on a cap, as he looked in the direction the sound came from. Rapidly approaching was a figure on, Newt guessed, a horse, their clothing glinting in the sunlight in a strange glittering pattern.

_ 'Armour.' _

His wand was in his hand, and he carefully flipped it in his hand so that the length of his coat hid it from sight. He could still cast with it, though fancy wand work was out of the question.

Whoever sat astride the horse—he thought it was a horse, it had a horse-like shape and gait—called out.

" Εντοπιστείτε!" (Identify yourself!)

Newt frowned. The voice—and what it said—were strange and unfamiliar to him. He'd heard a lot of languages over the years but this one, at best, was maybe Greek… the strange growling rumble the letters had made it difficult to understand.

As the rider approached, Newt was able to make out more features and he tightened his grip on his wand nervously at the sight. 

_ 'Is that—'  _ He thought, tilting his head in surprise  _ '—Is that a  _ werewolf  _ riding a horse?' _

" Παράδοση! Τώρα!" (Surrender! Now!) The figure—a werewolf, what  _ was  _ this place?—growled as it pulled the horse's reins and the horse slowed from a canter to a trot and then walk. It walked the horse up next to Newt, using the height of the horse and its position on its back to stare down menacingly at Newt.

He stared up at the canid being, noting the golden markings on its body, how they blended in with the pitch black armour it wore and the thin layer of fur—also black—along its exposed upper arms and clawed hands.

One of which held a long, golden tipped blade that rose up threateningly.

_ 'Great.' _

He leaned back instinctively when the blade tip came worryingly close to his face, the edge of it glinting in the sunlight. 

"Κίνηση!" The canid being jabbed at Newt with the blade making him stumble back a few steps. " Κίνηση!" It repeated.

Newt took a deep breath, made sure his wand wasn't visible to it, and turned around. The tip of the blade pressed warningly between his shoulder blades making him tense.

"I get the hint," he muttered quietly, seeing the way the canid being's ears pricked up at the sound of his voice. The blade pressed harder and he started walking, the horse's hooves striking the dirt road in time with his steps.

He had no idea where he was being  _ pointed  _ by the canid being but, judging by the fact that the road had to go somewhere, Newt felt he'd find out soon enough.

_ 'I really hope I haven't made a huge mistake,'  _ he thought, looking around at the fields of wheat grass, the mixed-coloured sky and the sun that—that was actually an eclipse.  _ 'Huh,'  _ he stared at it, almost tripping up on the uneven ground. _ 'That's unexpected.' _

He was in a place with eternal harvest and a permanent eclipse.  _ Where in the blue blazes was he? _

 

* * * 

 

The walk was pleasant enough, Newt figured, if he ignored the occasional prodding between his shoulder blades and the grumbled words he still didn't understand. An hour in, his feet hurt and his head felt a bit sore from the relentless light from the strange sun that was also an eclipse, but the tip of some tall building glinted in the distance and the canid being increased his periodic pokes at Newt's back to urge him to walk faster. While Newt felt comfortable with his wand still in his possession—though he'd slipped it into the wand holster on his wrist after a while since, beyond getting poked in the back by a particularly sharp blade, he didn't seem to be in any real danger—he had no need to draw it if the canid being decided to poke just a little too hard or suddenly decide to behead him. His magic had been cast out the entire time he'd been in this place, alerting him to any dangers and it would instinctively protect him from the canid being even before he could consciously call on it to do so through wandless magic.

_ 'I don't know what it is about this place,'  _ Newt thought to himself, dodging a pebble on the road that he would have stumbled on if his magic hadn't pointed it out to him, _ 'but everything feels… not wrong, more like it's all just magic itself and my own is reaching out to it all for some reason.' _

"So… I suppose you're taking me to see someone important?" Newt looked at the canid being on the horse, glancing over his shoulder to see them. 

The canid being growled at him. "Σιωπή!" (Silence!) The blade pressed deeper into the middle of Newt's back, piercing the blue material of his coat.

Newt's eyes widened a little in surprise. His coat was pretty resilient, having been spelled with every variation of protection charms and spells that he'd been able to work into the thread itself, so the fact that the canid being's blade could damage it, even slightly… 

Newt's magic gathered about him in a sudden swirl of movement, the wheat grass moved with the force of a hidden wind, dust and sand on the road rose in a flurry of activity, spinning around him and spooking the horse the canid being sat upon. 

The blade fell away from his back as the rider calmed his horse, regaining control from the panicked beast. 

"Είσαι ιερέας!" (You are a priest!)

Newt looked at the canid being, surprised to hear them speak in something other than a threatening growl after the past hour. The being's eyes were wide, nostrils flaring in a manner that Newt recognised as a sign of surprise on most canine-type creatures. Their ears were pricked up, aimed directly at Newt as his magic calmed and the wind around him died away.

"I… have no idea what that means, sorry," Newt said, pausing slightly as he watched the canid being all-but scramble off his horse. "Oh," he said, stepping back with his hands raised, "obviously nothing good."

The canid being stood beside the head of the horse, holding the reins to its bridle in a single hand that they extended towards Newt. "Είναι δικό σου, παπάς." (He is yours, priest)

Newt's head jerked back a little in confusion. The sword the canid being had used to threaten the magizoologist was sheathed in its scabbard on the being's hip and the being's entire demeanour had changed the moment Newt's magic had flared up.  _ 'Are they… offering me the  _ horse  _ to ride?'  _

That—that actually wasn't as absurd as Newt felt it should be, considering social hierarchies often elevated individuals with unique gifts or abilities, like, say, the ability to speak to a god, to the point of offering them sacrifices, honours, and so on. Newt just hadn't expected the canid being to be so deferring toward him after an unintentional display of his magic. 

_ 'This place must revere magic quite heavily,' _ he thought as he climbed atop the horse, knowing from past experience that refusing such a thing would be considered rude and a mark of disrespect toward the canid being.  _ 'Especially if a complete stranger can go from being viewed with suspicion to being offered the horse of a guard!'  _

Uncertain where exactly he was meant to be going, Newt looked down at the guard with what was probably a confused expression. The canid being sprung to its feet, taking the reins that Newt hadn't touched—knowing from past experiences that sometimes it was best to leave them untouched if he was a guest since it was more likely he'd be led to wherever than trying to guide himself—and began walking. It didn't speak but the way its head was angled down and slightly away, ears pricked still in Newt's direction, spoke of deferment and continued attention; though less suspicious and more anticipatory of any request Newt might have for it.

_ 'I really do find myself in the  _ oddest  _ situations.' _

The sun overhead, with its strange eclipse, seemed softer on his body after his magical display, but Newt knew that could just be his mind playing tricks on him. It probably was, but… the place around him honestly felt different. It was as though his magic had enabled some sort of block to be removed.

He wasn't quite certain if that was a good thing, considering. But, with the building off in the distance, large and imposing even from this far away, steadily growing larger and more defined, Newt knew that it was important both his wits and his magic were ready for whatever came at him. If this canid being was a guard that seemed to treat all with hostility and suspicion unless they portrayed magical ability, then it stood to reason it was not the only one and its duty was to guard the area and that ever approaching building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos sustain me :)
> 
> [I will get around to answering each comment ya'll leave, I'm just slow at it lol]


	9. Flaming Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt hopes he's not a human sacrifice. There's something else in this place that has Power(TM) and Newt is, as always, unlucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely didn't expect to run out of buffer with the last chapter! My life is in ruins but at least I've managed this chapter! I wanted to add more but I am, right now, absolutely exhausted and my brain is doing its own version of Blue Screen to make me quit now at midnight. So... yeah. Enjoy the latest chapter. We get a lot of things answered here (and some things left to confusion). It's going to be entertaining af to those who don't know how this story ends, and even more for those who do (I expect ya'll to screech at me like the pterosaurs you are).

_ ‘It’s a palace.’ _ Newt stared at the building situated at the centre of endless fields of golden wheat-grass.  _ ‘It’s an actual palace.’ _

About thirty metres from the entrance, the dirt track changed to smooth stone and the horse’s hooves echoed loudly on the stone surface in a rhythmic pattern. It was almost on par with Newt’s heartbeat as he stared up at the tall, square pillars that heralded the entrance to the palace. They were joined by a lintel over the road which continued on into the rest of the palace, and Newt saw several guards stood at attention—all were canid like the one holding the reins of the horse.

_ ‘So this guard isn’t the only one of its kind then,’ _ Newt mused, glancing at the canid guard beside him.  _ ‘I can only hope these ones won’t threaten to stab me first.’ _

As they rapidly approached the entrance, Newt noticed engravings on the walls of the pillars, bright and colourful. Some of them were hieroglyphs—Newt even recognised a few, like the symbol of Osiris and Ra—and others were motifs, representing stories and depicting what Newt thought might have been major events in Egyptian history. His knowledge on such things was passable but not in-depth enough to really understand what was displayed on the pillars.

It still evoked feelings of awe and wonderment in him, however.

"Ποιος είναι αυτός?" (Who is this?)

The sound of a growl, deeper and more guttural than the canid guard’s beside Newt, drew his attention from the pillars to the six guards positioned at the entrance to the palace. The one who had spoken looked from Newt to the guard holding the reins of its own horse.

Newt’s guard bowed its head at the other guard—possibly a mark of acknowledgement, respect, or recognition of a superior—and replied. "Ενας ιερέας."(A priest)

Whatever Newt’s guard had said clearly didn’t impress the other guard. It let out a sound Newt took to be similar to a scoff. "Είστε σίγουροι? Δεν φαίνεται να είναι ιερέας." The look it gave Newt was difficult to read but Newt thought it looked doubtful of whatever the guard beside Newt had said. (You are certain? He does not look to be a priest)

"Ο αέρας ανέβηκε γύρω του. Δεν μίλησε." (The air went up around him. He did not speak)

A silence fell between the two guards, long enough that Newt felt like he probably should say something. The guard with the deeper growl nodded.

"Τον παρουσιάστε στη θεά." It said in its deep growl, stepping back and to the side, the other guards with it following suit. (Show him to the goddess)

Newt’s guard bowed its head again, before clicking its tongue and tugging on the reins to move the horse forward. Newt felt like something important had been decided but he still couldn’t figure out exactly what language the guards were speaking. He was fairly certain it was Greek but… his Greek wasn’t exactly great so he found he understood only the occasional word or phrase.

_ ‘For all I know, I could be their choice of human sacrifice, _ ’ he thought darkly, taking a deep breath to calm his magic. It seemed… not agitated, but… active. Very active _. ‘This place is so strange. Made of magic but not an illusion. I could be still in the Sphinx with the Ghūl eating me and I wouldn’t have a clue.’ _

He shuddered. That was  _ not _ a nice thought to have.

The guard stopped walking, bringing the horse to a halt also, and Newt looked down at it in confusion. It had taken him to the end of the stone road, to a second entrance, smaller and leading into what appeared to be the inner-part of the palace.

“I suppose this is where I get off then?” he asked rhetorically, already climbing out of the saddle before the guard could respond. Newt looked at the entrance. The guard let out a sound, like a gruff affirmative that Newt had the right idea.

“Oh I hope there isn’t a dragon in there,” Newt murmured, moving toward the doorway, noting that the guard didn’t follow. He stopped and looked at the guard. “I’m to go alone?”

The guard nodded, pointing at the doorway. Newt wasn’t sure if it understood what he’d said or if it was just trying to encourage him to keep moving but, either way, Newt sighed and turned back to the doorway.

He slid his wand back into his hand, comforted by the feeling of the smooth wood clutched in his palm. Newt moved through the doorway, squinting at the change of lighting as he realised he was entering a room lit by candles and windows.

It seemed like some sort of antechamber, but Newt noticed that there were two doorways—one to the left and one to the right—that opened out into a sunlit area. He looked behind him at the doorway he’d entered through, noting the guard as it knelt down, head bowed.

**"Ποιος τολμά να με ενοχλεί?" (Who dares to bother/disturb me?)**

Newt jumped at the booming voice, not understanding them but recognising the imperious tone of someone who was used to respect and obedience. His magic flared in response to the voice, causing the items in the room—parchments judging by the way they were stacked on shelves—to flutter and shift. The flames of the candles in the room flickered.

Newt heard the guard speak but didn’t turn to look at it.

"Ένας ιερέας έχει εμφανιστεί θεά." (A priest has appeared goddess)

The voice turned calmer, more curious but no less demanding of a response.  **"Πού εμφανίστηκε?" (Where did he appear?)**

"Στα χρυσά πεδία. Ένας γερανός με οδήγησε σε αυτόν." (In the golden fields. A crane led me to him)

A lengthy silence followed the canid guard’s words and Newt glanced back at the guard to see its eyes flicker up to where Newt stood before they fell back to the ground again. Newt frowned.

**"Αφήστε μας." (Leave us)**

"Ναι θεά.” Immediately the guard rose, gripping the reins of its mount in a clawed hand. It nodded, bowing its head and turned away, leading its horse behind. (Yes goddess)

Newt watched the guard leave for a long moment before he turned back to face the room he stood in. There was no one he could see, or sense with his magic, inside so that meant whoever had spoken was somewhere beyond the room. If he remembered the design of some of the palaces he’d seen diagrams of before in the Egyptology section of the British museum, Newt figured that the doorways opened out into the same area, possibly a garden or throne room.

_ ‘Might as well pick a door and see if I’m right,’ _ he thought, taking a cautious step toward the doorway on his left.

The first thing he noticed was that there was _a_ _lot_ of green around him. Leaves from plants as tall as he was hung over the pathway of pale white stone, luscious and alive. Trees easily half as tall as the walls surrounding this courtyard-garden bloomed in varying shades of green, dotted with spots of bright reds and yellows, blues and shades of white. It was breathtakingly wonderful.

Newt swallowed and was surprised at how even the air in the courtyard-garden seemed damp, full of water unlike the dry are outside the palace. It was like he had walked out into an entirely different world.

_ ‘Maybe I have.’  _ He thought, making his way along the pathway, ducking under leaves and low-hanging branches with blossoms in full-bloom. _ ‘This place doesn’t seem real.’ _

Then again, neither did the rest of this strange place. Newt drew his wand fully. He wasn’t alone here, but it felt like he was isolated in a way that spoke to being lost in the middle of nowhere and trying to avoid being caught by someone—or  _ something _ —that wanted to capture him.

It was a sensation Newt was, unfortunately, quite familiar with.

The pathway led to an opening in the dense jungle of greenery, revealing a sunlit patch of pale white stone with patterned bricks of colour inlaid in concentric circles and geometric squares that Newt found difficult to look at for too long. With the sunlight glinting off them, they appeared almost as though they were moving—perhaps they were. Unlike the pathway surrounded by the plants and trees, this opening was walled in by the tall walls of the palace exterior, pillars spaced evenly around the area with white linen bunting attached to each of them, flowing from one to another like wisps of cotton clouds.

On the wall furthest from where Newt stood on the threshold of the open space, was a throne. It was encompassed in four sets of wings like those Newt saw on bird’s native to the area of North Africa—similar to falcon wings but with aspects of those of cranes also. They were, Newt noted with surprised, intricately detailed; coloured in shades of bronze and gold, as he took a step forward, he was able to see the grooves of feathers glisten in the sunlight.

_ ‘Amazing.’ _

**“You do not belong here.”**

Newt started. His wand rose to head-height as he looked around the courtyard warily.

**“You should not be here.”**

_ ‘No shit,’ _ Newt thought, turning his head to glance at the pathway behind him. He took several steps to the side so he could see the pathway and watch the courtyard.

**“Yet you cannot leave.”**

“Excuse me?” Newt looked around the courtyard, nonplussed at the statement from the voice. “Are you going to stop me?”

The voice replied immediately.  **“For your sake, yes.”**

Newt frowned. “My sake?” He lowered his wand a little. “What do you mean, ‘for my sake’?”

“Precisely what I said, Newton Scamander.”

Newt’s head snapped toward the throne, wand back up as he took in the sight of a person sat on the throne. Their clothing was long, flowing, similar to a dress but not precisely. It didn’t appear to be robes; the material too light and the style was all wrong, but it wasn’t any style of clothing Newt could recognise. The voice, which had before been loud and imposing, sounded layered. Both masculine and feminine with a soft echo that seemed to flow off surfaces instead of bounce harshly like an echo usually did.

He took a cautious step forward.

“Who are you?” He asked.

The person smiled.

“I am the beginning and the end, the night and the day, I am the sun and the moon, I am the world of the living and the world of the dead, I am the creator and the destroyer, I am many and I am none.”

Newt blinked. “That still doesn’t answer my question,” he said, dryly. “You know my name, it seems rude not to tell me yours.”

The person laughed. “This is true, Newton Scamander,” they agreed. “But names have power, even when it is believed they do not.”

Arithmancy. The power of numbers and letters. Newt understood that. He knew that some parents spent months compiling lists of names for their children, working endlessly to determine the most fortuitous name that would work for their particular offspring. Newt had, personally, found that it was a tedious process. Names were names. The power ascribed to them was determined by how people thought about them, not the letters themselves.

Mostly.

“I thought Egyptian gods had names known by mortals which they answered to, but secret names they shared with no one?” Newt asked, taking a guess that, considering how he’d been in Egypt and the presence of hieroglyphs and other things related to Egypt that he’d seen in this place, this person was at least a potential god from Egyptian pantheon.

“We do,” the person agreed, reclining in their throne, an amused smile on their face as they watched Newt. “You know I am a god and I have given you clues as to which one.”

“I confess that I—well, I don’t know many gods of Egypt,” Newt admitted. “In fact, I think I know Baset only because of the Cairo aurors calling on that goddess.”

“Well, you know of my daughter at least.” The god sighed. “There’s hope for you yet.”

Newt couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh at that. “Please, tell me who you are.”

“I have been known as Khnum and Khepri; the ram and the beetle,” the god said at last. “Once I was Atum, Amun, Ra-Atum, Amun-Ra, and, simply, Ra.”

Newt’s eyes widened. “You’re the sun god,” he breathed out in surprise.

Ra hummed.

“I am and I am not,” they said, tilting their head. “Here I am many, but I am also none. Here I am also more. I am the one who brought forth the world from the waters of Nun. I am song and life and sun. I am spirit and intent.”

The god stood suddenly, arms splayed and head raised. “I am the Bennu bird!”

Flames erupted along the god’s arms, flaring out into wings of shifting patterns.

Newt immediately cast a water charm, but the water evaporated before it even came within ten feet of the god.

**“I am fire! Life eternal!”** The god cried out.  **“I am being and I am beast and I long to be free!”**

As suddenly as the flames appeared, they spluttered out and the god dropped to their knees, their head hung low. Newt immediately hurried over to them, kneeling down beside them and reaching out a hand. The moment his hand touched the gods shoulder, the god’s head snapped up. They stared at Newt with eyes shining with fire.

“You cannot leave here while you are tainted,” the god, Bennu, Ra, Atum, Amun— whispered. They reached up to touch Newt’s face with shaking fingers. “Evil like what has touched you cannot be allowed to return to the world of the living.”

They smiled gently. “But I can cleanse you of the evil.” The fingers on Newt’s face tentatively traced his cheek and jaw. “If you can succeed in caging the evil with the rest of its kind.”

Newt tensed when those fingers touched the edge of his lips. “There are other Ghūl?” He asked, resolutely ignoring those fingers, recognising the act wasn’t inherently sexual but seemed more curious than anything.

Up close he was able to notice things about Ra’s physical appearance; the slightly elongated ears, sharp jawline, larger than average eyes. They all suggested non-human ancestry or, considering Ra was a god, complete inhumanness. It didn’t make them any more dangerous or threatening—Newt already considered Ra to be dangerous because of the power the god obviously wielded in this place.

“Why can’t you cage it?”

“Because it is a creature from the world of the living,” Ra said. They looked at Newt. “I cannot keep a being from the world of the living against their will and Ghūl’s cannot be killed; not even here in the realm of the dead.”

“But it can be caged here?” Newt frowned. “How does that work?”

Ra slowly rose to their feet and Newt stood also. He watched the god turn toward its throne and sit down gracefully. Newt remained stood in front of the throne and waited for the god to answer his questions.

“A Ghūl was once mortal,” Ra explained after a long pause. “They call on gods and trick us into revealing our secret names. Our secret names are what we draw on when we use our powers as gods,” Ra said, smiling at Newt who gave the god a rueful smile. “With our secret names, a mortal can force us to do their bidding, even take our powers from us.”

“That is horrifying.” Newt shook his head sadly. “I’ve seen people hurt creatures for the same reasons and it’s never acceptable, no matter the reasons they give,” he said, a flash of anger colouring his words and darting across his face.

Ra watched him with an assessing gaze.

“We have our revenge, however,” the god said, giving Newt a sharp grin that showed sharp canines. “Those that use our power are consumed by it. We curse them to become monsters, evil things that crave power in whatever form they can find but are never satisfied. It is punishment for their crimes against the gods.”

“Ghūl‘s are monsters that are born out of mortal greed for power,” Ra finished.

“So you can’t actually kill them because they are, in effect, your power?” Newt guessed and Ra nodded. “But I still don’t understand why you cannot contain them here yourself.”

“Because they house some of the power of gods and to cage the power of ourselves is to destroy ourselves,” Ra answered simply. “That is why a mortal can cage up a Ghūl but a god cannot. The act of containing ourselves destroys us.”

_ ‘That… that makes no sense at all and yet does at the same time,’ _ Newt thought, frowning.

“It is confusing for a mortal, I know,” Ra said, watching Newt as the magizoologist continued to frown. “But the gods are made of more than just our ba and ka; we exist in ways mortals do not. Not even magical ones such as yourself.”

Newt inclined his head. “Then I need to find a way to cage the Ghūl?”

Ra nodded. “I will show you the place and how to get there,” the god said. “It will take time, but that time can be spent leading it to where it will dwell until the end of all things.”

“But… where is it?” Newt asked, frowning. “I fell into the pond—I suppose it was a portal of some sort—and ended up in the middle of a field. It was right behind me, so where is it?”

Ra smiled. “I brought you to my domain the moment you stepped through the portal, but the Ghūl fell down into another realm. It is close already to reaching my realm, so time is short. You must prepare yourself for what lies ahead.”

Newt sighed. “I imagine I will be doing  _ a lot _ of running,” he said, dryly and Ra laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos, as always, sustain me (as does sleep, but that one ya'll can't provide me)


	10. Trials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So how do I get to this cage?” He asked suddenly, focusing on the situation at hand.
> 
> “Well,” Ra hummed, leaning back in their chair thoughtfully. “There are many ways to reach them,” Ra said finally, “but the ‘how’ depends entirely on the type of person you are.” The god paused. "Like most things in life, really,” they added after a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't forgotten about this! I'm updating at last! I am updating!! :D

_ 'This is so surreal,' _ Newt thought, looking around himself. He and the god were seated in a sunlit room off to the side of the throne room. The interior was simple yet elegant, with fine etchings on the walls of thousands of hieroglyphs in golds and shades of red and blue, it lent a very breath-taking sense to it. The kind that Newt had experienced when he had stood at the top of the amphitheatre of Aspendos, in the Ottoman Empire—actually, the Republic of Turkey if the current state of affairs was anything to go by.

“So how do I get to this cage?” He asked suddenly, focusing on the situation at hand.

The god had led him from the courtyard with its throne to this small room off to the side, along a path that was obscured from sight if one wasn't sat upon the throne. It was an interesting use of optical illusions, not magic, and Newt had taken a moment to be impressed by it before recentring his attention on the god who had answers but elicited so many more questions.

“Well,” Ra hummed, leaning back in their chair thoughtfully.

Out of all the things Newt had seen in this place, it was the room the magizoologist and god sat in — drinking spiced wine in chairs with stylised hieroglyphic scenes carved into wooden-backs, lion claw legs and arms layered in gold and silver metal — that was the most spine-tingling experience in this strange, surreal world. It felt so far removed from anything Newt had ever experienced before in his life that it left him unmoored in a reality that shifted with every breath he took and every time he blinked.

But compared to the horrifying reality of the Ghūl, of the murder of that boy he had seen through his own eyes, this ever-changing reality dependent on perception and intention was much, much more preferable to Newt.

“There are many ways to reach them,” Ra said finally, “but the ‘how’ depends entirely on the type of person you are.” The god paused. "Like most things in life, really,” they added after a moment.

“The—the  _ type of person _ , I am?” Newt frowned. Why would the type of person he was be so important? He needed to find this cage, lure the Ghūl and not die in the process. That was literally it. “What does that—how—why would that be important?”

_ 'Nothing is ever easy,' _ he thought, looking at the god.

The god looked at him, eyebrow raised in amusement. “Which of those partial questions should I answer first? Or would you like to ask me the dozen or so on your mind as well?”

Newt ducked his head, breaking eye contact. He felt his cheeks start to redden, blood pumping to the surface and heating the skin.  _ 'Damned pale skin,' _ he thought darkly even as Ra laughed lightly.  _ 'Why couldn't I have had Theseus's complexion instead? At least his doesn't show every time he's embarrassed!' _

“It is all good, Newton Scamander. Curiosity is good. It is the mark of a quick mind, to be so curious," Ra assured him, swilling their goblet of wine. "But, your questions, I suppose they’re all the same, ultimately,” the god continued, giving the magizoologist a patient look. “That which I am, the grey heron, Thoth, the wise, knows best how to answer your question.”

Newt leaned forward slightly in his chair in anticipation. The god’s vernacular was somewhat confusing but Newt's father had read to him Tennyson and Blake and several other muggle poets when he was a child; parsing meaning from confusing sentences was much easier now than it had been then.

“Like blood in your body, there are many ways life can travel to the source, and from it also,” Ra began in a quiet voice, an ethereal quality growing in it as they continued to speak. “For each being, there too are many ways they can travel. For those with strong hearts, direct paths are most common. Those who are thoughtful, careful plans are laid. Those who are gentle, kind trails lead to their destinations. This makes any choice, plan, or path, dependent on the person and who they are beyond what is clearly seen with simple eyes.”

“That…” Newt trailed off. It was the character that informed the path? Some sort of magical analyses of personality that was used to formulate a route for each individual?

_ 'Amazing.' _

“What does that mean for me then?” He asked after a moment.

“You are the type of person who repeatedly tests themselves,” Ra answered simply, “so your path is one of tests.”

“Tests? What kind of tests?”

That didn’t sound quite so bad. Tests came in all forms, like school exams, or little quizzes of local customs, or even the regular pub quizzes that Newt always got dragged to by Thee in the town local every Christmas.

“They vary,” Ra sipped their wine, shrugging lightly. “Some are as simple as asking the right question even if you do not realise it. Others may be to achieve monumental feats impossible for any other to accomplish. And,” Ra leaned forward in their chair, looking at Newt intently, “sometimes tests are not tests at all.”

_ ‘Appearances can be deceiving,’  _ Newt thought suddenly.

“Traditional tests for those judged by death,” Ra explained, “depended on their naming of the judges and the weighing of their heart, but this doesn’t work for you, obviously.”

_ ‘Why not?’ _ Newt wanted to ask, but he held his tongue, focused on Ra as the god focused on the magizoologist with their inhuman gaze.

“Your path may be similar, or it may be wholly different, I do not know,” the god admitted. “But I do know where it begins. Or began.”

“Where?”

Ra smiled. “The moment you entered into my realm, of course,” the god answered. “From here, however, other tests follow. East of here, beyond my land, you will find your next test.”

“Do you—” Newt paused. “Can you tell me what it might be?”

Ra shook their head.

“Oh,” the magizoologist sighed. “I don’t have much time to complete these tests, do I?”

“Time is, like life, both constant and relative,” the god answered. “You will have as much time as you need, but it will never feel like enough.”

_ ‘Lovely,’  _ Newt thought dryly. _ ‘Make a nice change from never having enough time at all, I suppose.’ _

Ra stood, depositing their wine on the table between them. Newt followed suit, his own goblet still half-full compared to Ra’s drained goblet. It was a strong wine, imbued with spices that Newt had difficulty identifying in the fermented grape mixture. After only a few sips, Newt had erred on the side of caution, deciding against the strong urge in his chest that longed for more of the libation.

“A guard will show you the way to the outer region of my realm, but beyond the border, the path you must travel will be alone. I cannot help you find your way, only await you at the destination.” Ra looked at Newt with an expression on their face that seemed out of place in this wondrous room. It was almost regret, but not quite.

Some part of Newt felt disconsolate at the sight of it for reasons he couldn’t fathom.  _ ‘Does he—they—think I’m going to fail?’ he _ thought,  _ ‘or that I’m going to suffer some unimaginable thing? Merlin, I hope not.’ _

“I suggest you hurry, before night falls here,” the god said, “darkness will make your path much more perilous.”

_ ‘More perilous than having a monstrous creature that was once apparently human?’ _ Newt wanted to ask, feeling slightly hysterical. Everything seemed to be unnecessarily difficult; and yet… yet he was loving it.

Ra held out a hand and after a moment Newt shook it. The handshake turned into an unexpected hug when the god pulled him toward them, their free arm wrapping around Newt’s waist to draw him close. Newt suddenly realised that Ra was taller than him, with a frame that seemed strangely fragile for the kind of easy strength the god possessed. The god’s hair, a glossy black with golden highlights that shimmered like spun sunlight, hung down their back and Newt’s arm was immersed in it as he hugged the god back.

_ ‘Why do I feel so comfortable?’ _ Newt thought confused at the sense of peace contact with Ra elicited.  _ ‘I don’t… this doesn’t make sense.’ _

“It is because I am giving you a gift, Newton Scamander,” Ra murmured into Newt’s ear suddenly, startling the magizoologist. “You are a rare being, with a  _ ka _ that is worthy of a gods favour.”

Newt leaned back, opening his eyes when he realised they had fallen shut during the embrace. The god looked at him, dark eyes sparking with golden flecks like lightning.

“I wish you would remain here,” Ra said, giving Newt a smile that seemed melancholic. “I find your presence soothing and long to be around it more. But you are mortal,” Ra sighed, releasing Newt from their embrace. “Mortal and alive. This is not the place for you.”

_ ‘It could be,’ _ Newt felt like saying.  _ ‘One day, maybe.’ _ But he remained silent, instead watching Ra’s face.

Ra shook their head. “Forgive me,” they said softly, glancing down and away from the magizoologist. “You must hurry on your way, I am keeping you too long; it is wrong of me.”

“No,” Newt countered, and Ra looked up at him. “I—it—I understand what it’s like to wish for more time in someone’s company,” he finally said, admitted.

Ra smiled. “Yes,” they agreed, “you do… It is… refreshing to be understood.”

Newt smiled himself. He certainly understood  _ that _ sentiment.

“But no, you must go.” Ra seemed to shake theirself, the visage of a being more vulnerable than a mighty god subsumed beneath the expression of a being used to performing their duty at the expense of all else. Something else Newt understood.

_ ‘I don’t think I really want to leave this place.’ _ Newt silently followed Ra as the god turned and led the way out of the room, through the courtyard and back toward the entrance to the inner part of the palace.  _ ‘But I can’t abandon my creatures.’ _ The thought of leaving Dougal and the Niffler, of all of the creatures he’d come across, protected, rescued, raised, fought and bled for—it caused a sharp spike of pain in Newt’s chest. No, he couldn’t leave them behind. He had to go back.

_ ‘After the Ghūl is locked up, I have to return.’ _

Ra glanced at him over their shoulder and Newt had the distinct feeling that the god knew what he was thinking; the slightest of nods from the god, a spark of gold-infused respect in their eye, Newt knew Ra understood that Newt couldn’t remain even after dealing with the Ghūl. Like the god, Newt had a duty that he performed at the expense of everything else; including his own happiness.

* * *

It was a different horse that Newt rode leaving the palace, determinedly not looking behind him at the pillars where Ra had watched him depart. Like a loved one watching a partner leave on a long journey.

_ ‘Or battle,’ _ Newt thought morbidly.  _ ‘The Ghūl isn’t going to merrily walk into its cage, after all.’ _

The guard beside him was different also. They wore finer material, their armour polished in a bright, glinting manner that was much more impractical for combat than darker armour, but who was Newt to tell the guard he thought their armour was a bit of a magnet for trouble in a fight. For all he knew, that could have been the purpose behind it. To draw the eye, act as a distraction, so others could get closer. Or even to misdirect the opponent’s attention during combat. It wasn’t like Newt’s own ‘armour’ of bright blue was subtle.

According to the god, Newt was going to be in the saddle for a while, probably a few hours, before he’d reach the edges of Ra’s realm, where the guard would leave him with the supplies stored in the saddle bags. After that point, he’d be alone. Alone and with no chance of back-up. If he messed up, or was injured, no one would be able to help him.

_ ‘Almost reminds me of that time in the Pamir mountains,’ _ he thought, somewhat fondly. _ ‘All that’s missing is a half-dozen poachers hunting me because I stole their ‘cargo’.’ _

Though, the prospect of facing the Ghūl was more than a decent trade. _ ‘I might almost prefer the poachers.’ _

Four hours later, almost an hour after the guard had left with a sharp bow, Newt wished he was tracked by poachers instead of… whatever else was prowling around his little camp, just beyond the light of the fire he'd created. Even when he increased the intensity of the flame, causing it to illuminate the space around him for at least two-hundred yards, it still felt like whatever it was stalking him was only a few feet away.

_ 'I'm never going to sleep at this rate,' _ he thought, shifting on the makeshift chair he'd configured a branch into. The horse stood a little ways away, seemingly unconcerned with whatever was out there. Though, that might have had something to do with the nosebag it was happily munching oats in and the conjured stable Newt had erected the moment he'd realised there was something in the darkness.

Prey animals like horses, Newt had found, either liked to run away from threats, or hide. Sometimes they'd be aggressive and attack but that was usually when they had the numbers, were the matriarch or were cornered. After all, sometimes it was better to go out swinging and trying to gut your attacker than to run until you collapse from a heart attack. Something Newt had discovered horses were capable of doing in Arabia. He'd be rightly shocked at the sight, and even more so at how the situation could have been avoided if someone had properly contained their dogs instead of leaving them loose.

Some English 'explorers' really did make Newt want to commit murder of his fellow countrymen.

Although he'd created a stable for his horse, Newt found himself reluctant to do something similar for himself. He had a strong feeling that whatever was in the darkness was focused on him and being in a confined space like a magically-constructed room was just asking for trouble. Unless he barricaded every entrance or had no windows or way to enter or exit the place. But then, if he did that, would they turn their attention to his horse instead?

_ 'At least if I'm in the open and they attack, I'll see them coming… if I can see them at all, that is.' _

There was little else that he could do for the horse — he needed to give the mare a name since he had no idea if she had one — and even less for himself. Beside make some preparations for what an inevitable fight would probably be with whatever was in the darkness. Newt's experiences across the globe had enabled him to make some preliminary guesses as to what was stalking him; carnivorous, predatory, nocturnal. All of which was obvious from the situation he found himself in.

Other aspects were a little less obvious.

Straining his hearing, Newt was able to make out what seemed to be a stride more suited to a quadruped rather than a biped creature, suggesting whatever was out there was potentially canid in its classification.  _ 'Unless it's like a hippogriff, of course.' _

There has been some sort of call the thing had made just after the sun had fully set reminded Newt of the crocodilian growls he'd heard in the Dutch East Indies. It had been a relatively common sound in Hatusua, Maluku when Newt had visited the isles for research on the reclusive orang-bati — not to be mistaken for the  _ pteropus vampyrus _ , or large flying fox, that several muggle explorers documented in the area. The sound of the saltwater crocodiles had been constant and somewhat soothing in a way; at least, if they could be heard, then they weren't in the water about to attack.

"This is ridiculous," Newt muttered, bringing his wand snapping up in an energetic movement. A glowing trail of light followed the movement, expanding and trailing after his wand as he turned in a sharp circle, moving his wand in a specific pattern.

The spell grew in intensity, the glow growing brighter, the ever-increasing tail of light from his wand spreading out from his person to blanket the entire area the fire he'd lit illuminated. Then, as suddenly as the spell had begun, it ended; the glowing trail sinking down to the ground, dissipating into the dirt.

Newt looked around at the darkness.

"Fair warning," he called out, "this isn't something you're going to want to test out."

Somehow, he felt like the creature—creatures (there was movement in the darkness behind him, he could sense it)—wouldn't much care for his advice. One of them would be in for a nasty surprise.

_ 'If they are as intelligent as I think they are,' _ Newt thought, pointing his wand at a space near the fire,  _ 'then warning them was only the polite thing to do.'  _ A sleeping bag, not dissimilar to the one he'd used as a child when camping with Thee, appeared on the ground. The roll that had been left with him by the guard was summoned and positioned beneath the sleeping bag.  _ 'At least I shall be comfortable while awaiting an attack.' _

He wouldn't sleep, even with the protective wards in place, but he could lie down and look at the strange sky above him that seemed to be full of moving stars. The creatures could attack if they liked, but the wards would repel them until they broke; and by the times the wards broke, Newt would already by attacking.

He hadn't tried apparating in Ra's realm yet but it was a possible escape route if he had need of it. But Newt didn't like the idea of abandoning his horse—Esmeralda, that's what he'd call her!—to be eaten by whatever crocodilian-like creatures were out there.

_ 'I've never tried apparating a horse,'  _ he thought, settling down into his sleeping bag. The sky above him twinkled invitingly.  _ 'Might find out if it's possible soon.' _

* * *

 

In the end, Newt hadn’t needed to go so far as apparating Esmeralda. The creatures, whatever the were—he never actually saw one of them since they never ventured close enough to the light to be seen—fled not long before dawn.

“I hate everything,” Newt muttered darkly, packing the saddle bag with what little provisions he’d taken out of it for his camp the night before. His hands trembled slightly from sleep deprivation, and he knew he’d need to pause in a few hours to catch a little bit of rest. But he refused to stay in the same place, even with the daylight.

He'd managed longer without sleep, five days had been… very strange. The memories he had of those five days of no sleep were muddled and jumped from each other like lightning. But helping an expectant mother birth and then ensure the offspring would survive beyond the first few days had been more important than sleeping. The number of Pepper Up potions he'd consumed had reached double digits before the third day and Newt had had to call Thee to keep an eye on his creatures when the crash came. Too much Pepper Up and no sleep? Thee had almost murdered him. So had mother, once Thee went and snitched on him to their parents.

The route Ra had instructed him to take had been, for the most part, relatively simple: just head straight. But beyond the borders of Ra's realm, Newt found himself uncertain where he was heading and even where he had just come from. It had felt like passing through a finely woven veil, one hung up over a doorway to allow for airflow but also privacy. One moment he had been in Ra's realm and the next—the next Newt had known he wasn't any longer. Instinctively, magically, the change had been obvious.

After three hours of travelling in what Newt hoped was a straight line, the magizoologist eventually decided to stop at a well. Though he could conjure water and food with his wand, Ra had warned him not to use his magic unless necessary.

_ "Why not?" Newt asked, frowning at the god. _

_ "There are others who will become aware of you," Ra answered quietly. "And not all of them will be as welcoming as I." _

The well was old, well-used, and reminded Newt of wells he had come across in his travels across the Ottoman Empire. With a simple winch and pulley system, Newt easily drew a bucket of water from the well, pouring some of it into his water [thing] and allowing Esmeralda to sup the rest.

"An hour here," Newt decided, muttering to himself as he watched Esmeralda drink. "There's shade enough with the dunes."

Where Ra's realm had been neverending fields and strange sunlight, this place was sandy and harsh. With little to no brush, Newt was hard pressed to find shelter from the relentless sun beating down. Some grass had grown around the well, from spilt water and seeds carried by the wind, and Newt was more than happy to allow Esmeralda to mow it all down. He gave her plenty of rope but ensured she couldn't go more than a few metres from the well.

Settling down behind the well, in the largest patch of shade it provided, Newt drew his wand and cast a single charm: it would wake him in an hour or if anything came near. Then, he slipped his wand back into his sleeve, and shut his eyes.

In a moment, he was out for the count, leaving Esmeralda to happily decimate the grass around the well.

* * *

"Why do you defend her?" Bernard asked Newt, giving the younger Scamander an unimpressed look. "All you end up doing is losing us points."

Newt ducked his head. "She's my friend," he said quietly, not looking at the fifth year prefect. "She's my friend."

Bernard sneered. "Not when she lets you take all the blame for her Slytherin behaviour," he remarked. "Stop defending her, Newton," he then ordered. "Or you'll become a pariah."

_ 'I already am,' _ Newt felt like snapping at the prefect, but he held his tongue.  _ 'I'd rather be a pariah than turn my back on my friend.' _

To be an exile in his own House or give up on a friend? Newt shook his head, shifting against the wall of the window he was perched against, the cool glass of the window kept him alert and able to focus on his reading. Bernard Quill shook his head at Newt, turning away and giving his attention to other things in the common room. Newt mentally heaved a sigh of relief.

The fifth year's threat—it couldn't be a warning with that look in his eye—played on his mind even as he read through the section of his potions textbook for Professor Black's next class. Although Newt was capable with all of his classes, Thee still outshined him; being amazing at charms and quidditch, so he wasn't bothered about his professors finding him lacking compared to his brother. That was typical since he was a Hufflepuff and not a Gryffindor like all other Scamander's before him.

_ 'I wish the hat hadn't insisted on Hufflepuff,' _ Newt thought forlornly.  _ 'If I'd been in Slytherin, at least I'd have given everyone a shock rather than a disappointment.' _

The worst part was, had he actually been sorted into Slytherin, Newt would have at least had a friend in the same House. Instead, he'd ended up in Hufflepuff where people only treated him with the distant politeness being in the same House garnered. Or when they wanted to know things about his brother.

"Oi Scamander!" Someone bellowed from the entrance to the common room.

Newt looked up.

"Professor Black wants to see you in his office," they said from across the room, causing those in the common room to perk up in interest. Obviously a trip to the Head of Slytherin House and the potions professor meant trouble for Newt—and possible lost points for Hufflepuff.

_ 'Just once,'  _ Newt thought as he shoved his book into his book bag and clambered from the window sill.  _ 'Just once, it'll be Nettles wanting to see me for something that doesn't involve lost points or detentions.' _

The walk all the way to the dungeons took far less time from the Hufflepuff common room than from anywhere else in the castle save wherever Slytherin common room was—Leta had never actually let him near it; Newt understood part of it was so she wouldn't get hounded for ratting out her House's common room, but another part of it was because she didn't want Newt to get hurt. It took him no more than ten minutes to reach Professor Black's office and he nervously tugged on his tie before knocking on the heavy oak door.

"Enter."

Newt pushed the door open, ducking his head as he entered the potions professor's office. "You wanted to see me, sir," he said quietly, moving to stand in front of Black's desk. He didn't sit down. Not until Black told him to.

"I did," Professor Black said, his voice the usual mix of haughty sneer and general lack of interest. Newt couldn't see his face thanks to his focus on the desk, but he could easily imagine the contemptuous expression the professor wore almost every time he had to speak to a student. "Sit."

Newt dropped into the nearest chair in front of the potions professor's desk, tucking his bag onto his lap, fingers twining around the leather shoulder strap. He remained silent, waiting for Professor Black to speak, as the potions professor preferred students to do.

"You are wasted in your house, Scamander."

Newt looked up at the professor, surprised and confused. What? "What?"

Black rolled his eyes. "You heard me, Scamander," he said, "you are  _ wasted _ ."

"I—"

"The hat has sorted others wrongly, being that it is biased against Slytherin for many reasons," Black continued, tapping on his desk. A cup of tea appeared a moment later. "It expected you to be too much like your rash brother, I imagine. Or Dumbledore," he added, lip twisting. "So it threw you into the House that all other things are discarded in. Not at all surprising. You didn't show much talent in your first year; just an annoying habit of enjoying Care of Magical Creatures too much."

Newt kept his eyes glued on Professor Black's desk, refusing to give the professor a chance to see what he was thinking; Occlumency was something he was learning, slowly, but only when his mother had the time to help him. The Black family was renowned for their skill in Legilimency, so much so that Newt's mother had warned him to  _ never  _ look the Professor in the eye if he could help it.

"It is a pity," Black said after a moment. "No matter what you do at this point, I doubt anyone will ever see you for what you really are."

"Sir?" Newt finally glanced up, avoiding the professor's gaze, fixing his eyes on a point close enough to be mistaken for eye contact but not allow for his mind to be read.

Black was smirking at him, something that looked more mocking than his usual expression of disinterest and dislike for his students. "Do you know honey badgers hunt and kill snakes?"

"Not exclusively," Newt responded after an awkward moment. "Other animals hunt snakes."

"True." Black nodded. "No other animal is quite so vicious about it, so—" The professor leaned forward in his chair "—How vicious are  _ you _ , Newton Scamander?"

_ 'As vicious as I have to be,' _ Newt thought. He felt no shame at the thought.

* * *

"Hey look! It's Leta's little puppy dog!"

Newt was jerked backwards by the hood of his robes. A seventh year Slytherin turned him around by the hood, grinning down at him.

"What are you doing near our common room, Hufflepup?" Another of the group of five—six seventh years demanded. "You're not welcome here."

"Oh come on, Burke," the one who had grabbed Newt's hood said, trying for a reasonable tone that was too mocking to be believed. "He's already an outcast in his own house, maybe he wants to be a snake?"

Burke snorted.

"Too stupid for that, Malfoy." Burke responded, drawing his wand. "Everyone knows what happens to non-snakes who come too close to the den."

"Ah, yes," Malfoy sighed. "Though if a Slytherin were to vouch for him now, then we would naturally allow him to be on his way." Malfoy looked around at the other Slytherins. "Oh," he said, looking down at Newt. "Too bad for you, Scamander."

Newt kicked out at Burke, surprising the seventh year with the ferocity of his kick. He twisted out of his robe, trying to slip between two of the other seventh years, but his arm was grabbed at the same moment one of them hit him with a stinging hex.

"You little bastard!" Hissed Malfoy, aiming his wand directly at Newt's face.  "Cru—"

Newt threw his hand out and  _ pushed _ . Malfoy, Burke and Nott who was stood beside the other two, were flung back by the force of Newt's magic slamming into them.

A wave of exhaustion washed over the Hufflepuff but he ignored it, drawing his wand and backing away from the other, stunned seventh years. None of them said a word, their wands held in lax grips as they stared at him with something approaching wary fear.

_ How vicious are  _ you _ , Newton Scamander? _

The words came to the forefront of his mind, unbidden and unwanted. Again, Newt's answer was the same:  _ 'As vicious as I have to be.' _

The trip back to his common room was uneventful, and Newt hid away in his bed as soon as he reached the dormitory. His hands shook and a cold sweat had broken out on his brow. He'd never channeled that much magic before like that. Not without consciously calling on it via incantation.

That he wasn't unconscious spoke to his magic strength as well as his constitution. Newt's strength scared him more than his unflinching viciousness; he felt not one lick of guilt or shame for slamming the three older students away from him with enough force to send them flying into the corridor wall ten-feet away. Power, in his family, was far more dangerous than a vicious streak.

* * *

"How could you get kicked out!"

Theseus's voice was loud in Newt's room. His brother had come barging into Newt's room the moment he'd arrived home. Evidently Thee had heard about Newt's expulsion through the Ministry grapevine and decided Newt had done something monumentally stupid.

In fairness, he had.

_ 'Better me than Leta,' _ he thought firmly, ignoring his brother even as Thee stormed up to his bed and snatched the book in Newt's hands away.

"Newt!"

"That is a four hundred year old copy of one of the first treatises on Merfolk," Newt commented, somewhat annoyed at Thee' s casual disregard for the book, which he'd dropped on the floor.

"I don't give a fuck!" Thee snapped, grabbing Newt's left arm. "Seriously, Newt, what the fuck happened? The gossip in the Auror department makes it sound like you should be in Azkaban for fucks sake!"

Thee had graduated Hogwarts with near perfect grades, amazing Quidditch status, and gone straight into the Ministry's Auror-training programme. Newt, compared to his brother, was an unimpressive academically, a perpetual troublemaker with his love of creatures, and, now, recently excluded from Hogwarts for inexcusable behaviour.

"Go ask Albus!" Newt snapped back, suddenly tired of it all. "I'm sure he'll love telling you and mother and father every little detail! It is amusing after all, how much of a failure I am! The school will have better OWL scores no doubt now that I'm not there to fuck it up!"

He tore his arm out of Thee's grip and slipped off his bed, heading over to his window. His parents had banned him from leaving his room save for meal times — they'd even put up wards to ensure he couldn't leave.

So Newt was stuck in his room, with his thoughts, and the fact that he still had his wand only because of his cousin sticking his nose in to things Newt hadn't wanted him to in the first place.

_ 'I'd have rather they'd broken my wand and mother and father exiled me,' _ Newt thought forlornly, staring out the window at the hippogriff stables.  _ 'Now I'm just the son who couldn't even manage to graduate because he's a troublemaking freak.' _

"Newt," Thee said, tentatively, coming to stand behind his brother. "I don't want to hear it from Albus, I was to hear it from you."

Newt turned to look at Thee. There was sadness on his brother's face. He didn't like it.

"I got expelled, but I'm not going to regret that," he said, quietly, staring his brother in the eye. "It was for the right reason."

"Which was?"

"I stopped a creature from being killed," Newt said, leaning against the window sill.

"What creature?" Thee asked, sounding like he wanted to add more questions but restraining himself.

Newt shook his head. "It doesn't matter, she's safe and far away from Britain." He shrugged. "She was a victim of idiocy."

"Newt—" Thee began but the door to Newt's room slamming open cut him off.

Their mother stood there, anger plain to see on her sharp features. Their father stood just a step behind her, on her right, leaving the spot to her left open for—

"Albus?" Thee blinked at his cousin.

"Come away from your brother, Theseus," their father said, quietly but firmly.

"Why?" Thee asked. Newt had tensed beside his brother and it was clear that Thee noticed the tension.

"Now, Theseus," their mother ordered. Newt noticed she had her wand in her hand.

So too did Thee.

"No."

Their parents blinked.

"Thee, don't," Newt said softly, making Thee look at him. "Don't."

Thee scowled at him. "They look like they're gonna string you up, Newt!" He exclaimed angrily.

Newt saw how their mother's eyes flashed with surprise and hurt at Thee's words. Thee didn't.

Newt took a slow step forward, reaching up with his left hand that was clearly in view of those at the door and placed it on Thee's shoulder. "Thee," he murmured, "trust me. Please?"

Thee stared at him. "I'm not leaving this room"

"You must still move away from your brother," the mother said, giving Theseus a look that showed a lot more affection than it probably should have considering how imposing she looked. "We aren't going to hurt him, my little hunter."

Their mother only ever called Thee that when she was being honest and making a promise. It showed that both of them, Thee  _ and _ Newt, could trust what she said.

_ 'Exiling someone doesn't always hurt,' _ Newt reminded himself, as Thee reluctantly stepped away.  _ 'Especially if it isn't fought.' _

"You would never treat another living being the way I have been told," Nafre said, stepping across the threshold into Newt's room. "Not willingly, and not at all if you had any choice. You were excluded for freeing it, instead of letting the aurors come and kill it."

Newt refused to look away from his mother, but he noticed how his father and Albus remained at the door as Nafre approached him.

"I am angry that you have been punished for doing the right thing," she explained, stopping in front of Newt. He hadn't seen her since the last day of summer; almost four months, and it surprised him that he was now taller than his mother. She had to look up at him, rather than down.

"I am also angry that you are taking the blame for the actions of someone else and refuse to admit it," Nafre finished, her eyes fixed on Newt's face.

_ 'I won't apologise for that,' _ he thought. Newt could see that his mother read that thought on his face. Nafre gave a little nod. She understood he wouldn't.

"Albus is here to officially return your belongings. He will be staying for dinner, where we will design a study schedule for your OWLs." Nafre turned away from Newt, ignoring the surprised expression on his face. She raised her wand and made a diagonal slashing motion at the doorway.

Newt instantly felt the wards on his room preventing him from leaving come down. A frission of relief rolled through him. He hadn't realised he'd been able to sense them that much.

His mother turned around again to face him. "I will set about enquiring about private tutors for the remainder of your schooling, and you will take your NEWTs when the time comes, regardless."

Newt nodded. "Yes mother."

He'd get perfect grades to make up for his expulsion, for his parents' sakes more than his own. Newt hated failing them and, even though he knew they weren't actually disappointed in him, or that they would ever exile him, it… it still felt like they  _ should _ .

He felt like he caused them no end of trouble and that they deserved better.

_ 'I'll be better,' _ he thought fiercely, following his family out of his room, There's arm wrapped around his shoulder.  _ 'I'll make them proud.' _

It didn't occur to him that they were proud of him already.

* * *

 

The young serpopard whined in discomfort. Newt winced. The poor thing wouldn't last another hour if he didn't treat those wounds. Broken bones on a feline were delicate enough, but a serpent-feline cross? If left untreated they could be deadly. If only these damned poachers would get out of his way!

"Don't worry, little one," Newt murmured, placing a gentle hand on the creatures flank. It shifted slightly at the contact but remained where it was half lying. "I'll figure something out."

Hopefully.

He'd already tried to sneak around the poachers, that was how he'd managed to get inside their hideaway in the first place, but they were on the alert now. He couldn't sneak back out, not with the creature beside him injured.

What he  _ really _ needed was a distraction.

Newt sighed, casting another healing spell on the serpopard, noticing that it was nowhere near as effective as he'd hoped it'd be. So this creature required potions not magical spells to heal it: fantastic.

It was just his luck.

Creating a distraction would require leaving the creature, something Newt was reluctant to do for any amount of time. He also wasn't so sure a distraction would work. The poachers were methodically working through their space, rapidly approaching Newt's hiding place.

_ 'Anything I cast now will just put them further on edge,' _ Newt thought, frowning as he peeked around the edge of the barrel he was behind. It was close enough to one of the walls of the building the poachers had set up shop in that he wasn't visible from any angle; especially with with boxes stacked to the left that obscured him entirely from that side. Unfortunately it also boxed him in.

So sneaking out was out of the question. Distracting them was out of the question. Leaving the serpopard was  _ definitely _ out of the question.

That left only one viable option.

_ 'Well, this is probably going to be messy… Oh well.' _

Newt couldn't help the smile that slid over his face, more like a snarl than a true smile. His blood began to pound in his body, limbs tingling in anticipation. He was calm and focused, but there was so much potential anger for him to tap into, Newt knew he wouldn't stop until the creature was safe.

He had no problem with that fact.

None at all.

A simple featherlight charm made his already soundless movements even harder to detect, especially if the poachers had cast their own motion detection spells. Being technically lighter than air confused the general run of the mill detection spell, especially the sort that had to filter out the movements of the casters allies. Newt took full advantage of this fact, skirting around tall shelves stacked with crates and cases to rapidly approach the most isolated poacher nearby his hiding spot.

A silent stunner that didn't reveal itself with a bright flash of light unlike the conventional  _ Stupefy _ removed one threat, leaving only a dozen more. The rest of whom were grouped together and thus wouldn't be taken by surprise so easily.

Newt had no intention of being sneaky, or picking them off one-by-one. It would take too long. No, what he intended would likely have Thee calling him a suicidal idiot if he ever found out.

Newt wasn't going to let Thee find out.

Pointing his wand at one of the poachers — the one Newt knew had injured the serpopard for the fun of it — he murmured a phrase in Latin. It wasn't strictly a spell, more like intent-driven magic. But it worked nonetheless, spell or no spell.

" _ Subsisto cor _ ."

Before the poacher's body even hit the floor, wand falling out of twitching fingertips, Newt was moving. He barrelled through the gaggle of poachers, his wand slashing out in quick, aggressive movements. Three poachers fell back, their faces bloody, skin cut to ribbons, crying out in pain and surprise. Two managed to block the curses, moving away from the centre of the group of poachers to duel easier.

Newt didn't give them the opportunity to get far.

" _ Confringo! _ " He aimed at the first poacher moving away from the group, causing them to stumble and dodge, unable to conjure a shield quick enough. " _ Bombarda! _ " This was aimed at the second in quick succession.

The second poacher wasn't quick enough. The were blown backwards, the spell causing immense physical injury to them as they were thrown clear across the warehouse. They landed somewhere behind a pile of boxes that were decorated with splatters of blood. Newt had no doubt that poacher was dead.

He didn't care.

The other poachers were stunned by the violent demise of one of their own and began throwing their own offensive spells at Newt. Cutting hexes, burn curses, even an attempt at Crucio. Newt weathered them all.

He returned with curses that had no names, hexes that were known only by word-of-mouth, and kicked and punched whenever physical violence was easier than magical violence.

By the time the last poacher fell, one of a few probably still alive, Newt was covered with clothing that looked closer to rags than the rag-tag suit he usually wore. The blue of his overcoat was stained with black marks and dark patches of blood saturating the fabric. His waistcoat was no longer a mustard-yellow but more like a dirty brown, buttons gone, gouges in the fabric revealing white shirt and bloodied skin.

His heart beat loudly, blood gushing through his veins and out of the cuts and slices and gouges in his skin. None of that registered, however. Newt, out of habit, cast a cleansing spell  that would remove all traces of blood and signs of curses and hexes having been performed. Strictly speaking, that wasn't how the spell worked — it was really for removing stains — but with his intent-driven magic and some tweaking of the wand movements and incantation, Newt had the perfect method for removing any evidence of his presence.

A series of bandages materialised into being with the swish of his wand, winding their way around the open wounds on Newt's body that he couldn't easily heal; either from curse damage or because they were too awkward to reach at the moment. The end result was that he looked very much like an escaped patient of St Mungo's who had had enough of sponge baths.

Pain was steadily working its way back into his awareness, gaining on the rushing blood as his heartbeat slowly returned to normal. Newt ignored it. He had a creature to save.

He could wait.

The creatures  _ always _ came first.

* * *

 

_ Newt felt absent, disconnected from himself. Yet, at the same time, he was intimately aware of himself. It was… strange. _

**_You have passed the test._ **

_ He turned around, or thought he did, searching for the source of those words. _

**_Continue your path._ **

_ His path? Newt thought that his path had been… No. That had been his past. His path was still ahead of him. _

_ The Ghūl. _

**_You are worthy._ **

_ This must be another test, he thought. Another test. One he had passed. By doing what? Being himself? _

**_Rest. You are safe where you are till dawn._ **

_ Like Newt cared. He was still going to wake up from this- this- dream? Dream. Yes. He was going to wake up. Wake. Up. Now— _

Newt's eyes snapped open and his immediately rolled over onto his side and retched. Frothy, clear liquid was all that came out and, after a long moment, Newt dragged himself upright and slumped back against the well. He'd been unconscious for long enough that his guts were aching and twisting in on themselves in hunger, hence the lack of anything but liquid to throw up.

He hated vomiting. It wasn't something  _ anyone _ enjoyed really, but Newt went to extremes to avoid it. He'd flat out refused to throw up one time when he'd been so ill that he'd been mostly delirious. Thee had been impressed by his sheer stubbornness.

Most people weren't able to override a physiological instinct out of pure sheer will. Newt was special like that.

He dragged his eyes open again, feeling drawn and drained. The area around the well was quiet, Esmeralda calmly lying down in the sand, peacefully dozing. Newt envied her.

_ 'At least I'm not taking a trip down memory lane still,' _ he thought, slowly dragging himself to his feet. His wand was in his pocket and he drew it, spelling away the sweat he'd worked up during his bout of unconsciousness with ease.

With a few simple wand movements, Newt had his camp prepared and crawled into the bed roll on the sandy ground beside the little campfire he'd created. Although he'd been unconscious for several hours, Newt was absolutely exhausted. He needed actual sleep, not the false slumber he'd fallen into.

_ 'If anything comes near and disturbs me, I'm going to take  _ great _ pleasure in removing it from the area,' _ he thought, snuggling into the roll, enjoying the cushioning charms woven into the material.  _ 'Violently.' _

Newt drifted off moments later; his internal clock already set for a dawn awakening.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to make this chapter longer but I think this is a suitable cut-off point so :)
> 
> As always, comments and kudos sustain me :)
> 
> I'm obaeawankenope on tumblr and I'm kinda dying from Good Omens at the moment :)))

**Author's Note:**

> Just scream at me in comments or on tumblr because, honestly, motivation is motivation lol


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